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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



I 
I 



A Treasury 

OF 

Favorite Poems 



EDITED BY 

Walter Learned 



VIGNETTE EDITION. WITH ONE HUNDRED NEW 
ILL US TR A TIONS 



Joseph M. Gleeson 




NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

MDCCCXCI 



Ht^kV\/ 









Copyright, 1891, 
By FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY. 



CONTENTS. 



Preface, 

The Day is done, , . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

To JMemor}', Oliver Goldsmith. 

The Old Familiar Faces, . . . Charles Lamb. 

I Remember. I Remember, . . . Thomas Hood. 

Oft in the Stilly Night, .... Thomas Moore. 
Farewell, but whenever you welcome, Thomas Moore. 
Ballad of the Bouillabaisse, . . W. M. Thackeray. 

The Old Arm-Chair, Eliza Cook. 

The Old Oaken Bucket, . . Samuel Woodworth. 

Ships at Sea, . Robert Barry Coffin (" Barry Gray"). 
Touch us gently, Time, B. W. Procter ( "Barry Cornwall"). 
Home, Sweet Home, . . John Howard Payne. 

Ken ye the Lan' ? (After Goethe's Song of Mignon), 

John T. Napier. 
A Wish, ....... Samuel Rogers. 

Bells of Shandon, Francis Mahon^'. 

Tender and True, . . . Dinah Muloch Craik. 

The Old Clock on the Stairs, . H. W. Longfellow 

Too Late, Fitz-Hugh Ludlow. 

Waiting for the May, . . Dennis Florence McCarthy. 
Spinning-wheel Song, ... J. Francis Waller. 

An Untimely Thought, ... T. B. Aldrich. 

Thanatopsis, . ..... W. C. Bryant. 

Night and Death, Blanco White. 

The Heavenly Canaan, .... Isaac Watts. 

The Land o' the Leal, .... Lady Nairne. 

The Graves of a Household, . . . Mrs. Hemans. 

Life, ..... Anna Leiitia Barbauld. 

Tommy's Dead, ...... Sidney Dobell. 

My Child, John Pierpont. 



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VI 



Contents. 



Promoted, .... 

As through the Land, 

The Days that are no more, 

The Undiscovered Country, 

The Two Village^, 

Over the River, 

The Death-bed, 

In JVIemoriam, 

Crossing the Bar, 

Lead, kindly Light, 

There is no Death, 

If I should Die To-Night, 



. Mary S. Bacon. 

Tennyson. 

. Tennyson. 

E. C. Stedman. 

Rose Terry Cooke. 

Nancy Priest Wakefield. 

Thomas Hood. 

. T. K. Hervey. 

Tennyson. 

John Henry Newman. 

Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. 

Belle Eugenia Smith. 



When the Grass thai! cover me, . . . Anon. 

Psalm of Life, H. W. Longfellow. 

Segovia and Madrid, .... Rose Terry Cooke. 
Elegy in a Country Churchyard, . . Thomas Gray. 
The Greater World, . . Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. 



The World is too much with us, 

Sunrise on Westminster Bridge, 

Virtue, ..... 

Sands o' Dee, 

How's my Boy? 

Three Fishers, . 

The Toys, .... 

Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind, 

The Bridge of Sighs, 

Death of the Old Year, . 

Death of the Flowers, . 

The Rainy Day, 

On his Blindness, . 

Break, Break, Break, 

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel, 

Too Late, .... 

A Secret, 

The Raven, 

Thanksgiving, 

The End of the Play, 

I am dying, Egypt, dying, 

Cleopatra, 

The Burial of Moses, 



. Wordsworth. 

Wordsworth. 

George Herbert. 

Charles Kingsley. 

Sidney Dobell. 

Charles Kingsley. 

Coventry Patmore. 

Shakespeare. 

Thomas Hood. 

. Tennyson. 

W. C. Bryant. 

H. W. I,ongfellow. 

. John Milton. 

. Tennyson. 

Leigh Hunt. 

. Tennyson. 

E. R. Sill. 

Edgar A. Poe. 

William D. Howells. 

W. M. Thackeray. 

. William H. Lytle. 

W. W. Story. 

C. F. Alexander. 



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119 



132 

134 
140 



Contents. 



Bernardo and Alphonso, . . . . J. G. Lockhart. 
Marco Bozzaris, .... FItz-Cireene Halleck. 

Ivry, Macaulay. 

How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 

Robert Browning. 
The King of Denm.Trk's Ride, . Caroline E. Norton. 

The Wreck of the Hesperus, . . H. W. Longfellow. 
Lord Ullin's Daughter, .... Thomas Campbell. 

Lochinvar, ....... Sir Walter Scott. 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant, . . Lady Duffeiin. 

John Anderson, ...... Robert Burns. 

Auld Robin Gray, . . Lady Anne Lindsay. 

A Place in thy Memory .... Gerald Griffin. 

Love's Farewell, ..... Michael Drayton. 

The Wanderer, ...... Austin Dobson. 

Love Not, ...... Caroline Norton. 

To Mary in Heaven, ..... Robert Burns. 

Farewell to Nancj-, .... Robert Burns. 

Farewell, ....... . Byron. 

The Dying Lover, R. H. Stoddard. 

A Farewell, Charles Kingsley. 

Lucy, ....... Wm. Wordsworth. 

Annabel Lee, ■ . Edgar A. Poe. 

Adieu, Thomas Carlyle. 

Evelyn Hope, .... Robert Browning. 

Changes, , . . . . . Robert Bulwer Lytton. 
What is he Buzzing in my Ears? . . Robert Browning. 
Ye Banks and Braes, .... Robert Burns. 

The Old, Old Song, .... Charles Kingsley. 
Aux Italiens, . . . Robert Bulwer Lytton. 

A Woman's Question, . . . Adelaide A. Procter. 
She was only a Woman . . . Theodore Marzials. 
One Word is too often profaned, . . P. B Shellej'. 

Believe me, if all those endearing, . Thomas Moore. 

Auf Wiedersehen, . . . . . J. R. Lowell. 

When Stars are in the quiet Sky, Edward Bulwer Lytton. 
The Chess-Board, . . . Robert Bulwer Lytton. 

To Beatrice, the Squire's Daughter, . May Kendall. 

We met, T. Haynes Bailey. 

The Age of Wisdom, , . . . W. ^L Thackeray. 



r.\GE 
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152 

1.57 
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162 
166 
169 
172 
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176 
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180 



182 
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214 
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Contents. 



PAGE 

The Manly Heart, .... George Wither. 218 

Could I her Faults Remember, . . R. B. Sheridan. 219 
Take, O take those Lips away, 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 220 

Madrigal, ....... Shakespeare. 220 

She Walks in Beauty, ...... Byron. 221 

Maid of Athens, ....... Byron. 222 

Palabras Carinosas, ..... T. B. Aldrich. 224 

In a Gondola, Robert Browning. 226 

At the Church Gate, ... W. M. Thackeray. 228 

Nocturne T. B. Aldnch. 229 

She is not Fair to outward view, . Hartley Coleridge. 230 

A Ditty, Sir Philip Sidney. 231 

Fidele, Shakespeare. 231 

When lovely Woman, .... Oliver Goldsmith. 232 

On a Girdle, .... . . Edmund Waller. 234 

She was a Phantom of Delight, . . Wm. Words wortli. 235 

To Althea, from Prison, . . Richard Lovelace. 236 

Beauty and Time, .... Austin Dobson. 237 

When she comes Home, .... J. W. Riley. 238 

The Ladies of St. James's, . . Austin Dobson. 239 

Light, F. W. Bourdillon. 242 

Jenny Kissed Me, ..... Leigh Hunt. 242 

She was a Beauty, . . . . . H. C. Bunner. 242 

Toujours Amour, .... E. C. Stedman. 243 

What Bard, O Time, Discover, . . R. B. Sheridan. 244 

To Celia, ....... Ben Jonson. 245 

Here's to the Maiden, . . . . R. B. Sheridan. 245 

A Health, ..... Edward Coate Pinkney. 247 

My Luv's like a Red, Red Rose, . . Robert Burns. 249 

The Welcome, ..... Thomas Davis. 250 

Too late I stayed, . . . Robert William Spencer. 253 

A nice Correspondent, . . . Frederick Locker. 253 

Her Letter, Bret Harte. 256 

What my Lover said, Homer Greene. 259 

A Midsummer Song R. W. Gilder. 261 

The Indian Weed, ...... Anon. 263 

My Friend and Pitcher, ..... O'Keefe. 265 

Without and Within, J. R. Lowell. 266 

The Night before Christmas, . . Clement C. Moore. 267 



Contents. 



IX 



At the Hearthside, .... John Vance Cheney. 
Little Theocritus, . . . Caroline Wilder Fellowes. 
Philip, my King, . . ' . Dinah Muloch Craik. 

Baby, ...... George Macdonald. 

Cradle Song, J- G. Holland. 

The Angels' Whisper, Samuel Lover. 

Sweet and Low, ...... . Tennyson. 

The Land of Counterpane, . . . R. L. Stevenson. 

Little Mamma C. H. Webb. 

Even There, E. R. Sill. 

Marsh Song at Sunset, .... Sidney Lanier. 

To a Waterfowl, W. C. Bryant. 

The Sandpiper, Celia Thaxter. 

The Skylark, ....... James Hogg. 

The Brookside, . . . Richard Monckton Milnes. 

The Chambered Nautilus, . . Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
To the Humble-Bee, . . . . R. W. Emerson. 

The Ivj' Green, Charles Dickens. 

High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, . Jean Ingelow. 
Bugle Song, ....... Tennj'son. 

St. Agnes, Tennyson. 

Hohenlinden, . . . . . Thomas Campbell. 
The Soldier's Dream, .... Thomas Campbell. 

Mother and Poet, E. B. Browning. 

A Song of the Camp, .... Bayard Taylor. 

How Sleep the Brave, . . . . William Collins. 
Decoration Day Ode, .... Henry Timrod. 

To Lucasta, ..... Richard Lovelace. 

The Battle of Blenheim, . . . Robert Southey. 

My Captain, Walt Whitman. 

The Picket of the Potomac, . . . Ethel Lynn Beers. 
Licident of the French Camp, . . Robert Browning. 

The Destruction of Sennacherib, .... Byron. 
Bingen on the Rhine, .... Caroline Norton. 

Before Sedan, Austin Dobson. 

Marthy Virginia's Hand G. P. Lathrop. 

Burial of Sir John Moore, . . . Charles Wolfe. 

Dirge for a Soldier, . . . George Henry Boker. 

Battle Hymn of the Republic, . . Julia Ward Howe. 
The Grave of Bonaparte, . . . Henry S. Washburn. 



PAGE 

270 
270 

271 
274 
275 
277 
279 
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284 
284 
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339 
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342 



Co?itents. 



A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea, 

A Sea Dirge, .... 

Tom Bowling, 

Black-ej'ed Susan, . 

The Tempest, 

If all were Rain and never Sun, 

Qua Cursum Ventus, . 

Joseph Rodman Drake, 

The Petrified Fern, 

Two Women, . 

A Musical Instrument, 

Cui Bono, 



. Allan Cunningham. 

. Shakespeare. 

. Charles Dibdin. 

John Gay. 

J. T. Fields. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 

Arthur H. Clough. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 

M.*ry L. PoUes Branch. 

. N. P. Willis. 

E. B. Browning. 

. Thomas Carlyle. 



Carcassonne. (Translated fiom the French of Gustave 

Naudaud), John R. Thompson. 

The Lost Leader, Robert Browning. 

Driving Home the Cows, . . Kate Putnam Osgood. 

Going Home, Ilenjamin F. Taylor. 

The Old-fashioned Choir, . . Benjamin F. Taylor. 

Maud Muller, J. G. Whittier. 

Hannah, ....... Lucy Larcom. 

Lai:gley Lane, ..... Robert Buchanjn. 

Dc Massa ob de Sheepfol', . . Sally P. McLean Greene. 
The Last" Rose of Summer, . . . Thomas Moore. 
The Last Leaf, .... Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

Good-Night, Babette, .... Austin Dobson. 



PAGE 

343 
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347 
348 

34y 
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352 

353 
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358 

359 
361 

363 
366 
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382 

383 
384 
386 



PREFACE. 



So many and such excellent collections of favor- 
ite poems have already been made that this volume 
contains but few poems that are not in some other 
collection. A new collection is, to a certain extent, 
but a turn of the kaleidoscope, a rearranging of the 
poems that live, not because they are collected, but 
which are collected because they live. So far, then, 
as it concerns the poems of the past, this volume is 
largely collected from collections. Time tries and 
sifts, and its verdict is clear and pronounced on the 
many poems to be found in all anthologies. Con- 
cerning the poems of to-day, an attempt has been 
made to include a few which seem to have a pres- 
ent and deserved popularity. To keep such a vol- 
ume within the bounds of easy handling and reading 
is certainly to exclude a great deal of popular verse. 
The principle of selection cannot be easily defined, 
but it has been, perhaps, an attempt to include those 
poems which the majority of intelligent people would 
care for most, which touch some popular chord, 
which are most likely to be cut out for the scrap- 
book. 

The thanks of the editor are due to The Century 



xii Preface. 

Company for their permission to use the poem by 
R. W. Gilder; to Charles Scribner's Sons, for their 
permission to use the poems of R. H. Stoddard, 
Sidney Lanier, and J. G. Holland ; to J. B. Lippin- 
cott & Co., for the use of the poem by George Henry 
Boker ; to S, C. Griggs & Co., for the use of poems 
of Benjamin F. Taylor, and to W. S. Gottsberger & 
Co., for use of poems by Rose Terry Cooke. 

The poems by H. W. Longfellow, T. B. Aldrich, 
R. W. Emerson, E. R. Sill, E. C. Stedman, Bayard 
Taylor, Celia Thaxter, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
W. D. Howells, Lucy Larcom, James Russell Low- 
ell, John G. Whittier, Charles Henry Webb, and 
James T. Fields are used by permission of and by 
arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publish- 
lishers of their books. 

The editor also gratefully acknowledges the kind- 
ness and courtesy of the authors who have permitted 
him to use their poems. 



A TREASURY OK 

KAVORITE POENIS 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The clay is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist : 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me. 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain. 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 
Not from the bards sublime. 



14 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet. 

Whose songs gush'd from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labor. 

And nights devoid of ease. 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice ; 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be fill'd with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day. 

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 15 

TO MEMORY. 

O Memory ! thou fond deceiver. 

Still importunate and vain, 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain ; 

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing. 

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ; 
And he who wants each other blessing, 

In thee must ever find a foe. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women : 
Closed are her doors on me ; I must not see her ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 




Closed are her doors on me,' 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 17 




"Earth seem'd a desert." 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child 

hood ; 
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to 

traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 



Friend of my bosom, thou more than 

a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's 

dwelling .? 
So might we talk of the old familiar 

faces — 

How some they have died, and some 

they have left me. 
And some are taken from me ; all are 

departed, — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
Charles Lamb. 




All, all are gone. 



1 8 yi Treasiu^y of Favorite Poems. 




I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
I REMEMBER, I remember. 
The house where I was born, 

The htlle window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn : 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away. 



I remember, I remember, 

The roses, red and white ; 
The violets and the Hly-cups, 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin 
built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — • 

The tree is living yet ! 



L. 




" The little window where 
the sun came peeping in 

AT MORN." 



I remember, I remember, 

Where I was used to swing ; 
And thought the air must rush 
as fresh 

To swallows on the wing : 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 
And summer pools could hardly 
cool 

The fever on my brow ! 



A Treasuiy of Favorite Poems. 19 



I remember, I remember. 

The fir trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky : 
It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 

Oft, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me ; 

The smiles, the tears, 1 

Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimm'd and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends, so link'd together, 
I've seen around me fall, 

Like leaves in wintry weather ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 21 

I feel like one, 

Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 

Whose lights are fled, 

W^hose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Thomas ]\Ioore. 

FAREWELL ! BUT WHENEVER YOU 
WELCOME THE HOUR. 

Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 

bower. 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return — not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brighten 'd his pathway of 

pain — 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw 
Its enchantment around him while lingering with 

you ! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup, 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that 
night — 



2 2 A Treasury of Favorite Poems, 



Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles. 
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles ; 




" But the scent of the roses will hang round it still." 

Too blest if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer. 
Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he were 
here ! " 



Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ! 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care. 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 



4 Treasury of Favorite Poems. 23 



Long, long be my heart with such memories hU'd I 
Like the \ase in which roses have once been distill'd 
You may break, vou may ruin the vase if you will, 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 

Thomas Moore. 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — 

The New Street of the Little Fields. 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid. 

But still in comfortable case ; 
The which in youth I oft attended. 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup or broth or brew, 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron. 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : 
All these you eat at Terre's tavern. 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties. 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 



24 A Ti^easiwy of Favorite Poems. 

And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace. 

Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
The smiling red-cheek'd ecaill^re is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terre still aHve and able ? 

I recollect his droll grimace : 
He'd come and smile before your table. 

And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter — nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray ? " 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race." 
" What will Monsieur require for dinner } " 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " 

"Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; 

" Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " 
"Tell me a good one." — " That I can, sir : 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
" So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustom'd corner-place ; 
" He's done with feasting and with drinking, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

My old accustom'd corner here is, 
The table still is in the nook ; 

Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is 

This well-known chair since last I took. 




A GRIZZLED, GRIM OLD FOGY, I SIT AND WAIT FOR BOUILLA- 
BAISSE." 



When first I saw ye, can' luoghi, 
I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 

And now, a grizzled, grim old fog}^, 
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 



2 6 A Treasury of Favorite Poems, 



Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days here met to dine ? 
Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places. 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing TOM is laughing yet ; 
There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! the world has wagg'd apace 
Since here we set the Claret flowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone, 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face look'd fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 

* H: * * * 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : 
Fill up the lonely glass and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 27 

Welcome the wine whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit vou down and say }"our grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking- Bouillabaisse. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 

I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair } 

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; 

I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with 

sighs. 
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
AVould ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there ; 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I linger'd near 

The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; 

And gentle words that mother would give 

To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide. 

With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watch'd her many a day, 
When her eye grew dim. and her locks were gray : 
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled. 
And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child. 



2 8 A Treasu7y of Favorite Poems. 




•In childhood's hour I lingered near the hallow'd seat.' 

Years roll'd on : but the last one sped— 
My idol was shatter'd ; my earth- star fled ; 
I learnt how much the heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now 

With quivering breath and throbbing brow ; 

'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she died ; 

And Memory flows with lava tide. 

Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 

While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; 

But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear 

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 

Eliza Cook:. 

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child- 
hood. 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! 



A Ti^easury of Favorite Foeins. 2\ 




How DEAR TO THIS HEART ARE THE SCENES OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tang-led wild 

wood, 
And every loved spot which mv infancy knew ; 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood 

by it. 
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dair}^ house nigh it. 
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the 

well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the 

well. 



That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure ; 
For often, at noon, when return'd from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 
The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield. 



30 A Treasury of Favorite Pc 



How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow- 
ing ! 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 

As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! 

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave 

it, 
Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation, 
The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in the well, 

Samuel Woodworth, 

SHIPS AT SEA. 

I HAVE ships that went to sea 

More than fifty years ago ; 
None have yet come home to me. 

But are sailing to and fro. 
I have seen them in my sleep, 
Plunging through the shoreless deep. 
With tattered sails and battered hulls. 
While around them screamed the gulls 
Flying low, flying low. 



A Treasury of Favorite Foerns. 31 

I have wondered why they stayed 
From me, sailing round the world, 

And I said : — " I'm half afraid 

That their sails will ne'er be furled." 

Great the treasures that they hold, 

Silks and plumes and bars of gold ; 

While the spices that they bear 

Fill with fragrance all the air 

As they sail, as they sail. 

Ah, each sailor in the port 

Knows that I have ships at sea, 

Of the winds and waves the sport. 
And the sailors pity me. 

Oft they come and with me walk. 

Cheering me with hopeful talk. 

Till I put my fears aside, 

And, contented, watch the tide 

Rise and fall, rise and fall. 

I have waited on the piers, 

Gazing for them down the bay, 

Days and nights for many years. 
Till I turned heart-sick away. 

But the pilots when they land 

Stop and take me by the band, 

Saying : — " You will live to see 

Your proud vessels come from sea, 
One and all, one and all." 

So I never quite despair, 

Nor let hope or courage fail ; 



32 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And some clay when skies are fair, 

Up tlie bay my sliips will sail. 
I shall then buy all I need, 
Prints to look at, books to read, 
Horses, wines, and works of art. 
Everything — except a heart ; 

That is lost, that is lost ! 

Once, when I was pure and young. 

Richer, too, than I am now, 
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow. 
There was one whose heart was mine ; 
But she's something now^ divine. 
And, though come my ships from sea. 
They can bring no heart to me. 
Evermore, evermore ! 

Robert Barry Coffin 

(" Barry Gray"), 



A PETITION TO TIME. 

Touch us gently. Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently, — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream ! 
Humble voyagers are we. 
Husband, wife, and children three, 
(One is lost, — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead). 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 3 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We've not proud nor soaring wings ; 
Our ambition, our content. 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 

Brvax Waller Pructek 

(" Barry Cornwall'"). 



HOME, SWEET H0:ME. 

']^IlD pleasures and palaces though we may roam. 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home 1 
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with 
elsewhere. 

Home, home, sweet, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ! 



An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ; 
Oh ! give me m}' lowly thatch 'd cottage again I 
The birds, singing gayly, that came at m.y call- 
Give me them ! — and the peace of mind dearer than 
all. 

Home, sweet, sweet, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ! 

JoHX Howard Payne. 



34 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



"IS* fcl A 







An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain. 



KEN YE THE LAN' ? 

(After Goethe's Song of Mignon.) 

Ken ye the Ian' o' the laigh gray skies, 

Whaur the green pine nods, an' the wild bird cries 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 35 

Whaur the heather blooms an' the gowan grows, 
An' sweet is the scent o' the briar-rose ? 
Ken ye the ^an' ? 

I am fain, I am fain, 
Tae see the blue hills o' my ain Ian' again. 

Ken ye the path ow'r the weary sea, 

Wr the loupin' waves an' the blawing bree ?— 

Alane wi' God, wi' nae Ian' in sicht ; 

But the east fornenst wi' the dawn is bricht. 

Ken ye the path ? 

I am fain, I am fain, 
Tae feel the saut win' i' my face again. 

Ken ye the fowk i' the mirk, alane, 

Whase ears are gleg for the stap o' their ain } 

Their words may be cauld, but their hearts are 

aflame ; 
" Ye've been lang awa' ; ye are welcome hame." 
Ken ye the fowk ? 

I am fain, I am fain, 
Tae see the dear licht o' their faces again, 

John T. Napier. 



A WISH. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill. 

With many a fall shall linger near. 



^6 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



:. y^'^ 




Around my ivied porch shall spring each fragrant flower 
that drinks the dew." 



The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, 
Shall twitter from her clay- built nest ; 

Oft shall tlie pilgrim lift the latch. 

And share my meal, a welcome guest. 



A T?-easiiry of Favoi'ite Pociiis. 37 

Around my ivied porch shall spring- 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees, 

Where first our marriage vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

Samuel Rogers. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

Sabbat a pa 7igo ; 
Fiuiera pla?igo : 
Solemnia clango. 

Inscription on an Old Brll. 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of. 

Those Shandon bells. 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 
Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
W^here'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder. 
Sweet Cork, of thee — 



,8 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
ToUing sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican — 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poei/is. 39 

But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
FHngs o'er the Tiber, 

Peahng solemnly. 
Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk, oh. 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony 

(" Father Prout"). 



40 A Treasury of Favorite Poeins. 



DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE. 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
In the old likeness that I knew. 




■COUI-I) YE COME HACK TO ME, DoUGLAS, DoUGLAS, IN THE OLD 
LIKENESS THAT I KNEW." 



I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 



A Treasitry of Favorite Poems. 41 



Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ;-^ 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were few ; 
Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 

1 never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 

Not half worthy the like of you ; 
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 
I \o\Q. yoii, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

DiXAH INIl'LOCH CraIK. 

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashion'd country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw : . 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 



42 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



Halfway up the 
stairs it stands, 

And points and 
beckons with its 
hands 

From its case of 
massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, 
under his cloak, 

Crosses himself, and 
sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful 
voice to all who 
pass, — 
' Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is 

low and light ; 
But in the silent 

dead of night. 
Distinct as a pass- 
ing footstep's 
fall. 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 
Along the ceiling, along the floor. 
And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 




Points anu liiiCKONS with its hands, like 

A MONK, WHO, UNDER HIS CLOAK." 



Through days of sorrow and of mirth. 
Through days of death and days of birth. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



^6 



Through every swift \ici3situcle 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe,— 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
His great fires up the chimney roar'd ; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast. 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children play'cl, 
There youths and maidens dreaming stray 'd 
O precious hours ! O golden prime, 
And afifluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold. 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in white. 
The bride came forth on her wedding-night ; 
There, in that silent room below. 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that follow'd the prayer. 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 



44 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



All are scatter'd now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask with throbs of pain, 
"Ah ! when shall they all meet again," 
As in the days long since gone by. 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disai:)pear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Henry Wadsvvorth Longfellow. 




A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 45 
TOO LATE. 

" Ah ! si lajeicnesse savait^ — si la vieillesse poiivait > " 

There sat an old man on a rock, 

And unceasing" bewailed him of Fate, — 
That concern where we all must take stock 

Though our vote has no bearing or weight ; 
And the old man sang him an old, old song, — 
Never sang- voice so clear and strong 
That it could drown the old man's long, 

For he sang the song, " Too late ! too late ! " 

When we want, we ha\'e for our pains 

The promise that if we but wait 
Till the want has burned out of our brains, 

Every means shall be present to sate ; 
While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold, 
While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old. 
When we've matched our buttons the pattern is 
sold. 

And e\'erything comes too late,^too late I 

When strawberries seemed Uke red heavens, — 

Terrapin stew a wild dream, — 
When my brain was at sixes and sevens, 

If my mother had ' folks ' and ice-cream, 
Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger 
At the restaurant-man and fruit-monger, — 
But oh ! how I wished I were younger 

When the goodies all came in a stream, in a 
stream ! 



4-6 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

" I've a splendid blood horse, and — a liver 
That it jars into torture to trot ; 
My row-boat's the gem of the river, — 

Gout makes every knuckle a knot ! 
I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, 
But no palate for menus — no eyes for a dome, — 
Those belonged to the youth who must tarry at 
home. 
When no home but an attic he'd got, — he'd got ! 

" How I longed, in the lonest of garrets, 
When the tiles baked my brains all July, 
For ground to grow two pecks of carrots. 

Two pigs of my own in a sty, 
A rosebush — a little thatched cottage, — 
Two spoons — love — a basin of pottage ! — 
Now in freestone I sit, — and my dotage, — 

With a woman's chair empty close by, — close 
by! 

** Ah ! now, though I sit on a rock, 

I have shared one seat with the great ; 
I have sat— knowing naught of the clock — 

On love's high throne of state ; 
But the lips that kissed, and the arms that ca- 
ressed, 
To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed. 
And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed 
Had they only not come too late, — too late ! " 

FiTz-HuGH Ludlow, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 47 



WAITING FOR THE MAY. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 

Waiting- for the May — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, 
With the woodbine alternating, 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah I my heart is weary waiting. 

Waiting for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 

Longing for the May — 
Longing to escape from study 
To the fair young face and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer's day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 

Longing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 

Sighing for the May — 
Sighing for their sure returning 
When the summer-beams are burning 
Hopes and flowers that dead or dying 

All the winter lay. 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 

Sighing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May — 



48 A Treasiu^y of Faiwrite Poems. 

Throbbing for the seaside billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows, 
Where in laughter and in sobbing 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing. 

Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting, sad, dejected, w^eary, 

Waiting for the May. 
Spring goes by with w^asted warnings — 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings — 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away-r- 
Man is ever weary, wear}-, 

Waiting for the May ! 

Dennis Florence McCarthy. 

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning ; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother sitting, 
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting, — 
" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
" ' Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flap- 
ping." 
"Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
" ' Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind 

dying." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 
stirring ; 




What's that noise that I hear at the window 



50 A Treasttjy of Favorite Poems. 

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 

" What's that noise that I hear at the window, I 

wonder ? " 
" ' Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." 
" What makes you be shoving and moving your 

stool on. 
And singing all wrong that old song of ' The 

Coolun ' .^ " 
There's a form at the casement, — the form of her 

true love, — 
And he whispers, with face bent, " I'm waiting for 

you, love ; 
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, 
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining 

brightly." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 

stirring ; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fin- 
gers. 

Steals up from her seat, — longs to go, and yet 
lingers ; 

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand- 
mother, 

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the 
other. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 5 1 

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound ; 

Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 

The maid steps, — then leaps to the arms of her lover. 

Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel swings ; 

Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings ; 

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and 

moving, 
Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight 

are roving. 

John FkAxXCIS Waller. 

AN UNTIMELY THOUGHT. 

I WONDER what day of the week^ 
I wonder what month of the year — 
Will it be midnight, or morning, 
And who will bend over my bier } 

— What a hideous fancy to come 
As I wait, at the foot of the stair, 
While Lilian gives the last touch 
To her robe, or the rose in her hair. 

Do I like your new dress —pompadour .? 
And do I X\^^yoii ? On my life, 
You are eighteen, and not a day more. 
And have not been six years my wife. 

Those two rosy boys in the crib 
Up-stairs are not ours, to be sure ! — 
You are just a sweet bride in her bloom. 
All sunshine, and snowy, and pure. 



52 A T'reasury of Favorite Poems. 

As the carriage rolls down the dark street 
The little wife laughs and makes cheer — 
But ... I wonder what day of the week, 
I wonder what month of the year. 

T. L. Aldkich. 

THANATOPSIS. 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 

Communion wdth her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language ; for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

0\'er thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, — 

Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 

Where thy pale form w^as laid, with many tears. 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, ■ 



A Treasury of J^cworitc Poems. 



And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being", shalt thou go 
To mix for ever with 

the elements, 
To be a brother to the 

insensible rock. 
And to the sluggish 

clod, which the rude 

s^^'ain 



Turns with his 


share, 


and treads 


upon. 


The oak 




Shall send his 


roots 


abroad, and 


pierce 


thy mould. 




Yet not to 


thine 


eternal resting- 




The solemn brood of care ri,OD nx. 

place 
Shalt thou retire alone, — ncr couldst thou v\ish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
\Vith patriarchs of the infant world— with kings. 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, pour'd round 
all, 



54 ^ Treasu7y of Favorite Poeins. 

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 

Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there : 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 

In silence from the living, and no friend 

Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall 

come, 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man, — 
Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side. 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 55 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry- .77 '-••-. 

slave at night, ~' '"'v'- 

Scourged to his dungeon, but, •' " * 

sustain'd and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, ap- 
proach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the dra- 
pery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to 
pleasant dreams. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



NIGHT AND DEATH. 

Mysterious Night! 
when our first parent 
knew 
Thee from report di- 
vine, and heard thy 
name. 
Did he not tremble 
for this lovely 
frame. 

This glorious canopy " When our first parent knew thee from 

of light and blue } ^'^^^^'^ divine." 

Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew. 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came. 




56 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And io ! creation widened in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay con- 
cealed 
Within thy beams, O sun ! or who could find, 

Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ! 
Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife ? 
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 

15LANCO White. 

THE HEAVENLY CANAAN. 

There is a land of pure delight. 
Where saints immortal reign ; 

Infinite day excludes the night, 
And pleasures banish pain. 

There everlasting spring abides. 
And never-withering flowers ; 

Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
This heavenly land from ours. 

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dressed in living green ; 

So to the Jews old Canaan stood 
While Jordan rolled between. 

But timorous mortals start and shrink 

To cross this narrow sea. 
And linger shivering on the brink. 

And fear to launch away. 



A Ti'casiiry of Faiwi-ite Poems. 57 

Oh ! could we make our doubts remove, 

Those gloomy doubts that rise, 
And see the Canaan that we love 

With unbeclouded eyes — 

Could we but climb where Moses stood, 

And view^ the landscape o'er, 
Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood. 

Should fright us from the shore. 

Isaac Watts. 



THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 

I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean, 

I'm wearin' awa' 

To the land o' the leal. 
There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
The day is aye fair 

In the land o' the leal. 

Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
She was baith gude and fair, Jean, 
And oh ! we grudged her sair 

To the land o' the leal. 
But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, 
And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean, 
The joy that's aye to last 

In the land o' the leal. 



58 A TreasiLry of Favorite Poems. 

Sae dear that joy was bought, Jean, 
Sae free the battle fought, Jean, 
That sinfu' man e'er brought 

To the land o' the leal. 
Oh ! dry your glistening e'e, Jean, 
My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
And angels beckon me 

To the land o' the leal. 

Oh ! haud ye leal and true, Jean, 
Your day it's wearin' thro', Jean, 
And I'll welcome you 

To the land o' the leal. 
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
This warld's cares are vain, Jean, 
We'll meet, and we'll be fain, 

In the land o' the leal. 

Lady Carolina Nairne. 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side, 
They fill'd one home with glee ; — ■ 

Their graves are sever'd, far and wide. 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers now } 



A Treasu7j of Favorite Poems. 



59 



One, 'midst the forests of the West 
By a dark stream is laid — 

The Indian knows his place of rest 
Far in the cedar shade. 




The Indian knows his place of rest.' 



The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 
He lies where pearls lie deep ; 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 



6o A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapt his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red held of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, Idv soft winds fann'd ; 

She faded midst Italian flowers — 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who play'd 

Beneath the same green tree ; 
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 

Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheer'd with song the hearth ! — 

Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, 
And naught beyond, O earth ! 

Ff.licia Dokothea Hemans. 

LIFE. 

Life ! I know not what thou art. 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met 
I own to me's a secret yet. 

Life ! we've been long together. 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear — 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 



4 Treasury of FavorHc Poems. 6i 




" Then steal away, give little wakning." 

— Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time ; 

Say not Good-Night, — but in some brighter clim_e 
Bid me Good-Morning. 

Anna L.etitia Bakbauld. 

TOMMY'S DEAD. 



You may give over plough, boys. 
You may take the gear to the stead. 

All the sweat o' your brow, boys, 
Will never g-et beer and bread. 



62 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

The seed's waste, I know, boys, 
There's not a blade will grow, boys, 
'Tis cropp'd out, I trow, boys. 
And Tommy's dead. 

Send the colt to fair, boys, 

He's going blind, as I said. 
My old eyes can't bear, boys. 

To see him in the shed ; 
The cow's dry and spare, boys, 
She's neither Jiere nor there, boys, 

I doubt she's badly bred ; 
Stop the mill to-morn, boys. 
There'll be no more corn, boys. 

Neither white nor red ; 
There's no sign of grass, boys. 
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, 
The land's not what it was, boys, 

And the beasts must be fed ; 
You may turn Peg away, boys. 

You may pay off old Ned, 
We've had a dull day, boys, 

And Tommy's dead. 

Move my chair on the floor, boys, 

Let me turn my head ; 
She's standing there in the door, boys. 

Your sister Winifred ! 
Take her away from me, boys. 

Your sister Winifred ! 
Move me round in my place, boys. 

Let me turn my head. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 6t^ 

Take her away from me, boys, 

As she lay on her death-bed. 
The bones of her thin face, boys, 

As she lay on her death-bed ! 
I don't know how it be, bo}s, 

When all's done and said. 
But I see her looking at me, boys, 

Wherever I turn my head ; 
Out of the big oak tree, boys, 

Out of the garden bed. 
And the lily as pale as she, boys. 

And the rose that used to be red. 

There's something not right, boys. 

But I think it's not in my head, 
I've kept my precious sight, boys, — 

The Lord be hallowed ! 
Outside and in 

The ground is cold to my tread. 
The hills are wizen and thin, 

The sky is shrivell'd and shred. 
The hedges down by the loan 
I can count them bone by bone. 

The leaves are open and spread, 
But I see the teeth of the land. 
And hands like a dead man's hand. 

And the eyes of a dead man's head. 
There's nothing but cinders and sand. 

The rat and the mouse have fed. 
And the summer's empty and cold ; 
Over valley and wold 

Wherever I turn mv head 



64 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

There's a mildew and a mould, 
The sun's going out overhead, 

And I'm very old, 
And Tommy's dead. 

What am I staying for, boys ? 

You're all born and bred, 
'Tis fifty years and more, boys. 

Since wife and I were wed, 
And she's gone before, boys, 

And Tommy's dead. 

She was always sweet, boys. 

Upon his curly head, 
She knew she'd never see't, boys, 

And she stole off to bed ; 
I've been sitting up alone, boys. 

For he'd come home, he said, 
But it's time I was gone, boys, 

For Tommy's dead. 

Put the shutters up, boys, 

Bring out the beer and bread. 
Make haste and sup, boys. 

For my eyes are heavy as lead ; 
There's something wrong i' the cup, boys. 

There's something ill wi' the bread, 
I don't care to sup, boys, 

And Tommy's dead. 

I'm not right, I doubt, boys, 
I've such a sleepy head. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 65 

I shall nevermore be stout, boys, 

You may carry me to bed. 
What are you about, boys ? 

The prayers are all said, 
The fire's raked out, boys. 

And Tommy's dead. 

The stairs are too steep, boys. 

You may carry me to the head. 
The night's dark and deep, boys, 

Your mother's long- in bed, 
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys, 

And Tommy's dead. 

I'm not used to kiss, boys, 

You may shake my hand instead. 

All things go amiss, boys, 

You may lay me where she is, boys. 
And I'll rest my old head : 

'Tis a poor world, this, boys. 
And Tommy's dead. 



Sidney Dobell 



MY CHILD. 

I CANNOT make him dead : 
His fair sunshiny head 

Is ever bounding round my study-chair 
Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
With tears, I turn to him, 

The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 



66 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

I walk my parlor jfloor, 

And through the open door 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 

I'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 

I thread the crowded street ; 

A satchell'd lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair : 

And, as he's running by, 

Follow him with my eye. 
Scarcely believing that^he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 

Under the cofhn-lid ; 
Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 
So long watch'd over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek it inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that— he is not there ! 

When, at the cool, gray break 
Of day, from sleep I wake. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poons. 67 

With my first breathing of the morning- air 

My soul goes up, with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy, 
Then comes the sad thought that— he is not there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am, in spirit, praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 

Not there ! Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear ; 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress. 
Is but his wardrobe lock'd ; — he is not there ! 

He li\'es ! In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last. 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And, on his angel brow, 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there I " 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear. 

That, in the spirit-land. 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heavem to find that — he is there ! 

John Pierpoxt. 



68 



A Treasurv of Favorite Poems. 



PRO^IOTED. 



His was the swiftest 

foot, the merriest 

eye, 
His laus^h the Hs^htest, 

his the truest heart, 
)i all the boys who 

thronged our shady 

street. 




A FORM, MAJESTIC, STUOU WITHIN MV KUU.M. 



The strength of his lithe limbs seemed measureless ; 
The courage of his loving, brave, young heart 
Was like a star, undimmed b}" cloud or storm. 
And I had said, — I, — in my dull, blind way, 
" I shall be never lonelv, never sad," 



A T)-easury of Favorite Poems. 69 



One day, — the sun shone bright, — I know not why, 
A pierced hand knocked at my vine-clad door, 
A fomi, majestic, stood within my room. 

Alas ! I knew that voice, those tear-dimmed eves. 
And trembled. But my child, pressed to his side, 
Followed the tender calling, and has gone. 

And now my boy, my little boy, knows more 
Than poets dream, or wisest teachers tell. 
No mortal eyes can see what his have seen. 
No ear can catch the music that he hears. " 
For he, whose mirth filled all my quiet house. 
Is standing with the singing seraphim ; 
But I am blinded with these rushing tears 
To think that he is there, — and I am here. 

Marv S. Lacox, 



THE RECONCILIATION. 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen "d ears. 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
We fell out — I know not why — 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling-out 

. That all the more endears. 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when Vs'e came where lies the child 

We lost in other vears, 



yo A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

There above the little grave. 
Oh, there above the little grave. 
We kiss'd again with tears. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the under-world. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. . 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



72 A Treasiiiy of Favorite Poems. 



"THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY." 

Could we but know 
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, 

Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, 
Ah if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil, 

Aught of that country could we surely know. 
Who would not go ? 

Might we but hear 
The hovering angels' high imagined chorus. 

Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear. 
One radiant vista of the realm before us, — 
With one rapt moment given to see and hear. 
Ah, who would fear ? 

Were we quite sure 
To find the peerless friend who left us lonely. 
Or there, by some celestial stream as pure. 
To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only, — 
This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure. 
Who would endure ? 

E. C. Stedman. 

THE TWO VILLAGES. 

Over the river, on the hill, 

Lieth a village white and still ; 

All around it the forest trees 

Shiver and whisper in the breeze ; 

Over it sailing shadows go 

Of soarinsf hawk and screaming crow, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



And mountain grasses, low and sweet, 
Grow in the middle of every street. 



73 




Over the river, un- 
der the hill, 
Another village 

lieth still; 
There I see in the 

cloudy night 
Twinkling stars of 

household 

light. 
Fires that gleam 

from the 

smithy's door, 
Mists that curl on 

the r i \' e r - 

shore ; 
And in the roads no grasses grow, 
For the wheels that hasten to and fro. 



0\-ER thh; rivek, on the hill, 
Lieth a village white anu still. 



In that village on the hill 

Never is sound of smithy or mill ; 

The houses are thatched with grass and llowers ; 

Never a clock to toll the hours ; 

The marble doors are always shut, 

You cannot enter in hall or hu^ ; 

All the villagers lie asleep ; 

Never a grain to sow or reap ; 

Never in dreams to moan or sigh : 

Silent and idle and low the^' lie. 



74 -A Treasitry of Fain^rite Poems. 

In that village under the hill, 

When the night is starry and still, 

Many a weary soul in prayer 

Looks to the other village there, 

And weeping and sighing, longs to go 

Up to that home from this below ; 

Longs to sleep in the forest wild. 

Whither have vanished wife and child. 

And heareth, praying, this answer fall : 

" Patience ! that village shall hold you all ! " 

Rose Terry Cookr. 

OVER THE RIVER. 

Over the river they beckon to me, — 

Loved ones who've cross'd to the farther side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 

But their voices are drown'd in the rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold. 

And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
He cross'd in the twilight, gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there ; 

The gates of the city we could not see ; 
Over the river, over the river. 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! 

Over the river, the boatman pale 

Carried another, — the household pet: 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 
Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 75 

She cross'd on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly enter'd the phantom bark ; 
We watch'd it glide from the silver sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 
We know she is safe on the farther side. 

Where all the ransom 'd and angels be ; 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, — 
And lo ! they have pass'd from our yearning heart 

They cross the stream, and are gone for aye ; 
We may not sunder the veil apart. 

That hides from our vision the gates of day. 
We only know, that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the \vater cold. 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale. 

To the better shore of the spirit land ; 



76 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

I shall know the loved who have gone before, — 
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 

When over the river, the peaceful river, 
The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Nancy A. W. Wakefield. 

THE DEATH-BED. 
We watch'd her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low. 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem'd to speak. 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears. 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept. 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids closed— she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hom>. 

IN MEMORIAM. 
Farewell ! since never more for thee 

The sun comes up our eastern skies, 
Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be 

To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 77 

There are who for thy last, long- sleep 
Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, — 

Shall weep because thou canst not weep, 
And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. 

Sad thrift of love ! the loving breast 
On which the aching head was thrown, 

Gave up the weary head to rest, 
But kept the aching for its own. 

T. K. Hervev. 

CROSSING THE BAR. 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless 
deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and e\'ening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



78 A Treasury of Favorite Foems. 




" Lead Thoi^ mk 



LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. 

Lkad, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom. 

Lead Thou me on ; 
The night is dark, and I am far from home; 

Lead Thou me oii ; 
Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene ; one step enough for me. 



I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on ; 
I loved to choose and see my path ; but now 

Lead Thou me on ! 



u4 Treasury of Favorite Poems. 7 

1 loved the garish day, and, spite of fears. 
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years ! 

So long Thy power has blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone. 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile I 

John- Henry Newman. 

THERE IS NO DEATH. 

There is no death I The stars go down 

To rise upon some fairer shore, 
And bright in Heaven's jewelled crown 

They shine forever more. 

There is no death ! The dust \\e tread 
Shall change beneath the Summer showers 

To golden grain or mellow fruit. 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers. 

The granite rocks disorganize 

To feed the hungr}- moss they bear ; 

The forest leaves drink daily life 
From out the viewless air. 

There is no death ! The leaves may fall, 
The flower may fade and pass away ; 

They only wait through the AVintr)- hours 
The coming of the May. 



D A Trcasiuj of Favorite Poems. 

There is no death ! An aged form 
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; 

He bears our best loved things away, 
And then we call them " dead." 

He leaves our hearts all desolate ; 

He plucks our sweetest, fairest flowers ; 
Transplanted into bliss, they now 

Adorn immortal bowers. 

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones 
Made glad the scenes of sin and strife, 

Sings now an everlasting song 
Amid the Tree of Life, 

And where he sees a smile too bright, 
Or heart too pure for sin and vice, 

He bears it to that world of light 
To dwell in Paradise. 

Born unto that undying life, 

They leave us but to come again ; 

With joy we welcome them — the same 
Except in sin and pain. 

And even near us, though unseen. 

The dear immortal spirits tread ; 
For all the boundless universe 

Is life — there is no dead. 

Edward Bulwer Lytton. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 81 



IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. 

If I should die to-night, 
My friends would look upon my quiet face 
Before they laid it in its resting place, 
And deem that death had left it almost fair ; 
And, laying snow-white Howers against my hair, 
Would smooth it dowii with tearful tenderness, 
And fold my hands with lingering caress ; 
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night ! 

If I should die to-night. 
My friends would call to mind, with loving thought. 
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought ; 
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said ; 
Errands on which the willing feet had sped ; 
The memor}' of my selfishness and pride, 
My hasty words, would all be put aside, 
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. 

If I should die to-night. 
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, 
Recalling other days remorsefully. 
The eyes that chill me with averted glance 
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance. 
And soften, in the old, familiar way, 
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay ? 
So I might rest, forgi\-en of all, to-night. 

Oh, friends, I pray to-night, 
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow, 



82 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 




When dreamless rest is imine I siial 

NOT need 

The tenderness for ^\■HICH I lon 

TO-NIGHT." 



The way is lonely, let 
me feel them now. 

Think gently of me ; I 
am travel-worn ; 

My faltering feet are 
pierced with many a 
thorn. 

Forgive, oh, hearts es- 
tranged, forgive, 1 
plead ; 

When dreamless rest 
is mine I shall not 
need 

The tenderness for 
w h i c h I long to- 
night. 
Belle Eugenia Smith. 



WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME. 

When the grass shall cover me. 
Head to foot, where I am lying ; 
When not any wind that blows, 
Summer blooms or winter snows, 
Shall wake me to your sighing ; 
Close above me as you pass, 
You will say, " How kind she was," 
You will say, " How true she was," 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Holden close to Earth's warm bosom ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 83 



While I laugh, or weep, or sing- 
Nevermore for anything ; 
You will find in blade and blossom, 
Sweet, small voices, odorous. 
Tender pleaders in my cause, 
That shall speak me as I was — 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me ! 
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow 
Very patient, I can wait — 
Knowing that or soon or late. 
There will dawn a clearer morrow ; 
When your heart will moan, " Alas ! 
Now I know how true she was ; 
Now I know how dear she was " — ■ 
When the grass grows over me ! 

Anon. 

A PSALM OF LIFE. 

What the Heart of the Young Man said 
TO THE Psalmist. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers. 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 



84 A TreasiLry of Favorite Poems. 



Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Finds us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave; 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle. 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 85 

Still achie\ing, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 

Hfxrv Wadsworth LoNGFELLOWc 

SEGOVIA AND MADRID. 

It sings to me in sunshine, 

It whispers all day long, 
My heart-ache, like an echo, 

Repeats the wistful song ; 
Only a quaint old love-lilt, 

Wherein my life is hid, — 
" My body is in Sego^-ia, 

But my soul is in ^Madrid !" 

I dream, and wake, and wonder, 

For dream and day are one ; 
Alight with \anished faces. 

And days fore\'er done. 
They smile and shine around me 

As long ago they did ; 
For my body is in Segovia, 

But my soul is in Madrid ! 

Through inland hills and forests 

I hear the ocean breeze, 
The creak of straining cordage. 

The rush of mighty seas, 
The lift of angr\' billows 

Through which a swift keel slid ; 
For my body is in Segovia, 

But mv soul is in Madrid. 



86 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



.-^^ 




Oh, fair-haired little darlings, 
Who bore my heart away ! 

A wide and woeful 
ocean 
Between us roars to- 
da}- ; 
Yet am I close beside 
you, 
Though time and 
space forbid ; 
My body is in Sego- 
via, 
But my soul is in 
Madrid. 



Oh, faik-haired little darlings 
Who bore my heart away !''' 



If I were once in hea- 
ven. 
There would be no 
more sea ; 
My heart would cease 
to wander, 
My sorrows cease to 
be; 
My sad eyes sleep for- 
ever. 
In dust and daisies 
hid, 
And my body leave 
Segovia, 
— Would my soul forget Madrid ? 

Rose Terry Cooke. 



A Treasury of Favor iic Poems. 8; 

ELEGY. 
Written in a Country Churchyard. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 




"Now FADES THE GLIMMF.RIN'G LANDSCAPE ON THE SIGHT.'' 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on tlie sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the mooii complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 



88 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour :— 

The paths of glor)' lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 




NuK GRANDEUR HEAR WITH A DISDAINFUL SMILE.' 



90 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can Honor's voice pro\'oke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood. 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 



A Trcasitrv of Favorite Poems. 



9^ 



Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 





Th' applause of listY'ing senates to command. 



The strugghng pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 



92 A Treasury of Favorite Poeins. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learn 'd to stray ; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
■ They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
deck'd, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'e 
Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes Hve their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 93 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch., 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon w^ood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his w^ayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love 

" One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he»; 

" The next with dirges due in sad array 

Slow through the churchway path we saw him 
borne ; 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth ; 

A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
Fair Science frown 'd not on his humble birth. 

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 



94 ^ Trcasiwy of Favorite Poems, 



Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to Misery all he had, — a tear, 

He gain'd from Hea\'en — 'twas all he wish'd — a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray= 

THE GREATER WORLD. 

When you forget the beauty of the scene 
Where you draw breath and sleep, 

Leave city walls for gleams of sky that lean 
To hills where forests creep. 

The heights, the fields, the wide-winged air 

Make the em.bracing day ; 
Not city streets. That little life of care 

Steals our great joys away. 

Live with the spaces, wake with bird and cloud, 

Spread sentient with the elm ; 
Our home is nature, even to the proud 

Arcs of the sunset's realm. 

Then say the scene God made is glorious ! 

Breathe deep and smile again. 
The glow and noble dusks, victorious, 

Disperse regrets and pain. 

Rose Hawthorne Lathkop. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 95 



THE WORLD. 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have gi\'en our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for ever^lhing, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. Great God ! Ld rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn,. 
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea. 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth, 



WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 

Sept. 3, 1802. 

Earth has not anything to show more fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This city now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning : silent, bare. 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields and to the sky, 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill ; 



g6 A Treasury of Favoj'ite Pociiis. 



Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses, seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



WiLMAM WORDhWORlH. 




Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky, 
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night. 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 
And thou must die. 



Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
My music shows you have your closes. 
And all must die. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 97 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, ne\er gives ; 
But when the whole world turns to coal, 
TJien chietiy lives. 

George Herbert. 

THE SANDS OF DEE. 

Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands of Dee." 
The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The western tide crept. up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand. 
As far as eye could see. 
The rolling mist came down and hid the land : 
And never home came she. 

Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tress of golden hair, 
A drowned maiden's hair, 
Above the nets at sea } 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among the stakes of Dee." 

They ro\ved her in across the rolling foam. 
The cruel crawling foam, 
The cruel hunijrv foam. 



98 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

To her grave beside the sea. 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, 
Across the sands of Dee. 

Charles Kingsley. 

HOW'S MY BOY. 

" Ho, sailor of the sea ! 

How's my boy, — my boy ? " 

" What's your boy's name, good wife. 

And in what ship sailed he } " 

" My boy John,— 

He that went to sea, — 

What care I for the ship, sailor.^ 

My boy's my boy to me. 

" You come back from sea, 

And not know my John ? 

I might as well have ask'd some landsman, 

Yonder down in the town. 

There's not an ass in all the parish 

But know's my John. 

" How's my boy, — my boy ? 

And unless you let me know, 

I'll swear you are no sailor, 

Blue jacket or no, — . \ 

Brass buttons or no, sailor, 

Anchor and crown or no, — 

Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton' " — 

" Speak low, woman, speak low ! ' 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 99 

" And why should I speak low, sailor, 
About my own boy John ? 
If I was loud as I am proud 
I'd sing him over the town ! 
Why should I speak low, sailor? " 
''That good ship went down." 

" How's my boy, — my boy ? 

What care I for the ship, sailor? 

I was never aboard her. 

Be she afloat or be she aground, 

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 

Her owners can afford her ! 

I say, how's my John ? " 

" Every man on board went down, 

Every man aboard her." 

" How's my boy, — my boy ? 
What care I for the men, sailor? 
I'm not their mother, — 
How's my boy, — my boy ? 
Tell me of him and no other ! 
How's my boy, — my boy ? " 

Sydney Dobell, 

THE THREE FISHERS. 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west, 
Out into the west, as the sun went down. 

Each thought on the woman who loved him the best. 
And the children stood watching them out of the 
town : 



TOO A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

For men must work, and women must weep, 

And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 

Though the harbor bar be moaning-. 

Three wives sat \\\) in the lighthouse tower. 

And they trimmed the lam})s as the sun went down; 



fl 




But men must work, and women must weep. 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep.' 



They look'd at the squall, and they looked at the 
shower. 
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and 
brown ; 



A Treasiwy of Favorite Poems. 



But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses Ue out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went down. 

And the women are weepingand wringing their hands, 
For those who will never come home to the town; 

For men must work, and women must weep. 

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kii\c;si.kv. 

THE TOYS. 

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes. 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise. 

Having my law the seventh time disobey 'd, 

I struck him, and dismiss'd 

With hard words and unkiss'd, 

His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 

I visited his bed, 

But found him slumbering deep, 

With darken 'd eyelids, and their lashes yet 

From his late sobbing wet. 

And I, with moan, 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; 

For, on a table drawn beside his head. 

He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red vein'd stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach. 



I02 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And six or seven shells, 
A bottle with bluebells 
And two French copper coins, ranged there with 

careful art. 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So when that night I pray'd 
To God, I wept, and said : 
Ah, when at last we die with tranced breath. 
Not vexing Thee in death. 
And Thou rememberest of what toys 
We made our joys, 
How weakly understood. 
Thy great commanded good. 
Then, fatherly not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay. 
Thou 'It leave Thy wrath and say, 
" I vvill be sorry for their childishness." 

Coventry Patmore. 

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind. 

Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen. 

Because thou art not seen, \ 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 

Then, heigh-ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly ! 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 103 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 

Thou dost not bite so nig'h 
As benefits forgot : 

Though thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remember'd not. 
Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 

Then, heigh-ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly ! 

William ShaivRspeake. 

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

" Drowned ! drowned ' " — Hamlet. 

One more Unfortunate, 

Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate. 

Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care, — 
Fashion'd so slenderly. 

Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements ; 

Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 

Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. — 



I04 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully, 

Gently and humanly ; 
Not of the stains of her. 
All that remains of her 

Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 

Rash and undutiful : 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family — 

Wipe those poor lips of hers. 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 

Escaped from the comb. 

Her fair auburn tresses ; 

Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home.^ 

Who was her father ? 

Who was her mother ? 
Had she a sister } 

Had she a brother ? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other ? 



yl Treasurx of Favorite Poems. 105 

Alas I for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful I 
Near a whole city full. 

Home she had none. 



4, 




bl't not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river. 



Sisterly, brotherl)-, 
Fatherly, motherly, 

Feelincfs had chano-ed : 



io6 A Ti'easury of Favorite Poems. 

Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a light 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement. 
She stood with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch. 

Or the black flowing river ; 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery 

Swift to be hurl'd — 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran, — 
Over the brink of it. 
Picture it — think of it, 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 107 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashion'cl so slenderly. 

Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, — kindly, — 

Smooth and compose them ; 

And her eyes, close them. 
Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 

Fix'd on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurr'd by contumely. 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest. — 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 

Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness, 

Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness. 

Her sins to her Saviour ! 

Thomas Hood. 



io8 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 

And the winter winds are wearily sighing ; 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 

For the Old year 
lies a-dying. 
Old year, you 
must not 
die ; 
You came to 
us so read- 

You lived with 
us so stead- 

iiy. 

Old year, you 
shall not 
die. 




He 



lieth still : he 
doth n o t 
move : 
He will not see the 



iuLL VU THli CH 



AND SLfJW. 



d a w n 
day. 

He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 
And the New year 'will take 'em away. 
Old year, you must not go ; 



of 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 109 

So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you ha\e seen with us, 
Old ) ear, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the biini : 

A jollier year we shall not see. 
But though his eyes are waxing dim, 
And though his foes speak ill of him. 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We did so laugh and cry with you 
I've half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest. 

But all his merry equips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 
Eveiy one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my fiiend, 
And the New year blithe and bold, my 
friend. 
Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! Over the snow 

I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chiri)s : the light burns low : 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 
Shake hands before you die. 



no A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : 
What is it Ave can do for you ? 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 

Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 
And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on the floor, my 

friend, 
And a new face at the door, my friend, 
A new face at the door. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of 

the year. 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 

brown and sere. 
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the autumn 

leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 

tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 

shrubs the jay. 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all 

the gloomy day. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 1 1 1 




The melancholy days are come. 



Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 
hood ? 

Alas I they all are in their graves ; the gentle race 
of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good 
of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold 
November rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones 
asrain. 



112 A Ti^easury of Favorite Poems. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long 

ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the 

summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 

wood. 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn 

beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 

the plague on men. 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from 

uptand, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still 

such days will come. 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 

winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 

all the trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 

rill. 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose 

fragrance late he bore. 
And sighs to And them in the wood and by the 

stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 

died. 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by 

my side. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poeuis. 113 

In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest 

cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life 

so brief ; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young 

friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



THE RAINY DAY. • 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 
Some days must be dark and dreary. 

Henky Wadswokth Longfellow. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 1 1 5 

ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to hide, 

Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest he returning chide ; 

Doth God exact day labor, light deny'd, 

I fondly ask ? but patience to prevent 

That murmur soon replies, God doth not need 

Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state 

Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 

And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 

They also serve who only stand and wait. 

John Milton. 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the tisherman's boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on ; 
To their haven under the hill ; 



ii6 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 




'• Break, bkeak, iskeak, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea !" 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. 

Abou Ben AdhExM (may his tribe increase) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. 




It came again with a great wake, r 



ii8 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And saw, within the moonHght in his room, 
Making it rich, and Hke a hly in bloom. 
An angel, writing in a book of gold : — 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
" What writest thou ? " — The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, " The names of those who love the 

Lord." 
" And is mine one ? " said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. 
But cheerly still; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light. 
And showed the names whom love of God had 

blessed. 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 



TOO LATE. 

Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and 

chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

No light had we : for that we do repent ; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 119 

" No light : so late ! and dark and chill the night ! 
O let us in, that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

" Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet ? 
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye camiot enter now." 

Alfred Tennyson. 

A SECRET. 

'TiS not in seeking, 

'Tis not in endless striving. 

Thy quest is found : 
Be still and listen ; 
Be still and drink the quiet 

Of all around. 

Not for thy crying, 

Not for thy loud beseeching, 

Will peace draw near ; 
Rest with palms folded ; 
Rest with thine eyelids fallen — 

Lo ! peace is here. 

Edward Rowland Sill. 

THE RAVEN. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 
weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- 
gotten lore, 




Ah, distinctly I kemember it was in the bleak December. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poevis. 121 



While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there 
canne a tapping, 
As of some one genth' rapping, rapping at my 

chamber-door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my 
chamber-door — 
Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak 
December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its 
ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had tried 
to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for 

the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore, 
Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each j^urple 
curtain 
Thrilled me, — tilled me with fantastic terrors 
11 ever felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 
.repeating, 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my 

chamber-door, 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my cham- 
ber-door ; 
This it is and nothino^ more." 



122 A Treasicry of Faiwrite Poems. 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no 
longer, 
" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness 
I implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you 
came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 

chamber-door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you." — Here I 
opened wide the door ; — 
Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there 
wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared 
to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave 
no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the whis- 
pered word " Lenore ! " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back 
the word " Lenore ! " — 
Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within 

me burning. 
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder 

than before. 
"Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my 

window-lattice ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 123 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 

explore. 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery 

explore ; 
'Tis the wind, and nothing- more ! " 



Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 
flirt and flutter, 
In there stepp'd a stately Raven of the saintly 
days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant 
stopped or stayed he ; 
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 

chamber-door, — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my 
chamber-door, — 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the counte- 
nance it wore, 
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I 
said, " art sure no craven. 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering 

from the Nightly shore, — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's 
Plutonian shore." 
Ouoth the raven, " Nevermore." 



124 ^ T)'easury of Favorite Poems. 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear dis- 
course so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy 
bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
being 
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his 

chamber-door — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber-door, 
With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, 
spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he 
did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feather then 
he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends 

have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes 
have flown before." 
Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 
spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only 
stock and store. 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerci- 
ful Disaster 



A Ti^easiiry of Favorite Poems. 125 



Followed fast and followed faster till his song one 
burden bore — 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy bur- 
den bore — 
Of ' Never ' — ' Nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into 
smiling, 
Straight I wheel'd a cushion 'd seat in front of 
bird, and bust, and door ; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 
linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird 

of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and 
ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
pressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight 

gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight 
gloating o'er — 
She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 



126 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed 
from an unseen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on 
the tufted floor, 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by 
these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories 

of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget 
this lost Lenore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if 
bird or devil ! — 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 
thee here ashore. 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted — 
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, 

I implore — 
Is there— /j- there balm in Gilead ? — tell me, tell 
me, I implore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil, — prophet still, 
if bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that 
God we both adore — 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the dis- 
tant Aidenn, 



A Treasury of Favorite Focms. 127 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore." 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend I " I 
shrieked, upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's 
Plutonian shore I 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust 

above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy 
form from off my door ! " 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
sitting 
On the palhd bust of Pallas just above my cham- 
ber-door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's 
that is dreaming. 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his 

shadow on the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies float- 
ing on the floor. 
Shall be lifted — nevermore I 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



1 8 A Treasury of Faiwrite Poems. 

THANKSGIVING. 
Lord, for the erring thought 
Not into evil wrought : 
Lord, for the wicked will 
Betrayed and baffled still : 
For the heart from itself kept, 
Our thanksgiving accept. 

For ignorant hopes that were 
Broken to our bUnd prayer : 
For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
Unto our chastisement : 
For all loss of seeming good, 
Quicken our gratitude. 

W. I). HOWELLS 

THE END OF THE PLAY. 
The play is done, — the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 
A moment yet the actor stops. 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends, — 
Let's close it with a parting rhyme ; 

And pledge a hand to all young friends. 
As flits the merry Christmas time ; 

On life's wide scene you, too, have parts 
That fate erelong shall bid you play ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 129 

Good night ! — with honest, gentle hearts 
A kindly greeting go alvvay ! 

Good night ! — I'd say the griefs, the joys, 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys. 

Are but repeated in our age ; 
I'd say your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain, than those of men,- 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys, — 
With grizzled beards at forty-five. 

As erst at twelve in corduroys ; 
And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray. 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say how fate may change and shift,— 
The prize be sometimes with the fool. 

The race not always to the swift : 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown. 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design } 
Blessed be He who took and gave ! 



130 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 
Be weeping at her darling's grave ? 

We bow to Heaven that willed it so, 
That darkly rules the fate of all. 

That sends the respite or the blow, 
That's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit, — 

Who brought him to that mirth and state? 
His betters, see, below him sit. 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus } 
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance 

And longing passion unfulfilled. 
Amen ! — whatever fate be sent. 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow. 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part. 
And bow before the awful will. 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses, or who wins the prize,^ 

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 
But if you fail, or if you rise, 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



131 



A gentleman, or old or young ! 

( Bear kindly with my humble lays , ) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days ; 
The shepherds heard it overhead, — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle nrien ! 

My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside. 
And wish you health and love and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth. 

Be this, good friends, our carol still, — 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 

W. M, Thackeray. 




\0f 



m 




132 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 

I AM dying, Egypt, dying, 

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast. 
And the dark Plutonian shadows 

Gather on the evening blast ; 
Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, 

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; 
Listen to the great heart-secrets, 

Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 

Though my scarr'd and veteran legions 

Bear their eagles high no more, 
And my wreck'd and scatter'd galleys 

Strew dark Actium's fatal shore. 
Though no glittering guards surround me. 

Prompt to do their master's will, 
I must perish like a Roman, 

Die the great Triumvir still. 

Let not Cesar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low ; 
'Twas no foeman's arm that fell'd him, 

'Twas his own that struck the blow : 
His who, pillov/'d on thy bosom, 

Turn'd aside from glory's ray. 
His who, drunk with thy caresses, 

Madly threw a world away. 

Should the base Plebeian rabble 
Dare assail my name at Rome, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 133 

Where my noble spouse, Octavia, 
Weeps within her widow'd home, 



\ 




<^l*fe- 



w^ 



I AM DYING, Egypt, dying. 



Seek her ; say the gods bear witness- 
Altars, augurs, circlin,^ wings — 



134 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

That her blood, with mine commingled, 
Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, 

Glorious sorceress of the Nile, 
Light the path to Stygian horrors 

With the splendors of thy smile. 
Give the Caesar crowns and arches, 

Let his brow the laurel twine ; 
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, 

Triumphing in love like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying; 

Hark ! the insulting foeman's cr}^ 
They are coming ! cjuick, my falchion, 

Let me front them ere I die. 
Ah ! no more amid the battle 

Shall my heart exulting swell ; 
Isis and Osiris guard thee ! 

Cleopatra, Rome, farewell ! 

William Haines Lytle, 



CLEOPATRA. 

Here, Charmian, take my bracelets, 
The bar with a purple stain 

My arms ; turn over my pillows — 
They are hot where I have lain : 

Open the lattice wider. 

A gauze on my bosom throw, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 135 



And let me inhale the odors 
That over the garden blow. 

I dreamed I was with my Antony, 

And in his arms I lay ; 
Ah, me ! the vision has vanished — 

The music has died away. 
The flame and the perfume have perished — 

As this spiced aromatic pastille 
That wound the blue smoke of its odor 

Is now but an ashy hill. 

Scatter upon me rose-leaves. 

They cool me after my sleep, 
And with sandal odors fan me 

Till into my veins they creep : 
Reach down the lute, and play me 

A melancholy tune, 
To rhyme with the dream that has vanished, 

And the slumbering afternoon. 

There, drowsing in golden sunlight, 

Loiters the slow smooth Nile, 
Through slender papyri, that cover 

The war}^ crocodile. 
The lotus lolls on the water. 

And opens its heart of gold, 
And over its broad leaf-pavement 

Never a ripple is rolled. 
The twilight breeze is too lazy 

Those feather}' palms to wave, 



A Treasury of Favorite Foe jus. 

And yon little cloud is as motionless 
As a stone above a grave. 



Ah, me ! this lifeless nature 

Oppresses my heart and brain ! 
Oh ! for a storm and thunder — 

For lightning and wild fierce rain ! 
Fling down that lute — I hate it ! 

Take rather his buckler and sword, 
And crash them and clash them together 

Till this sleeping world is stirred. 

Hark ! to my Indian beauty — 

My cockatoo, creamy white. 
With roses under his feathers — 

That flashes across the light. 
Look ! listen ! as backward and forward 

To his hoop of gold he clings, 
How he trembles, with crest uplifted, 

And shrieks as he madly swings ! 
Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony ! 

Cry, " Come, my love, come home ! " 
Shriek, " Antony ! Antony ! Antony ! " 

Till he hears you even in Rome. 

There — leave me, and take from my chamber 

That stupid little gazelle. 
With its bright black eyes so meaningless, 

And its silly tinkhng bell ! 
Take him, — my nerves he vexes, — 

The thing without blood or brain, — 



A Treasury of Favorite Pocjhs. 137 



Or, by the body of Isis, 

I'll snap his thin neck in twain ! 

Leave me to gaze at the landscape 

Mistily stretching away, 
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors 

O'er the mountains quivering play : 
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset 

Pours from the west its hre. 
And melted, as in a crucible, 

Their earthly forms expire ; 
And the bald blear skull of the desert 

With glowing mountains is crowned, 
That burning like molten jewels 

Circle its temples round. 
I will lie and dream of the past time, 

^ons of thought away. 
And through the jungle of memory 

Loosen my fancy to play ; 
When, a smooth and velvety tiger, 

Ribbed with yellow and black. 
Supple and cushion-footed 

I wandered, where never the track 
Of a human creature had rustled 

The silence of mighty \voods, 
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom, 

I knew but the law of my moods. 
The elephant, trumpeting, started. 

When he heard my footstep near. 
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly 

In a vellow cloud of fear. 



138 A Treasitry of Favorite Poems. 

I sucked in the noontide splendor, 

Quivering along the glade, 
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming, 

Basked in the tamarisk shade. 
Till I hear my wild mate roaring. 

As the shadows of night came on, 
To brood in the trees' thick branches 

And the shadow of sleep was gone ; 




" How POWERFUL HE WAS AND GRAND." 



Then I roused, and roared in answer. 
And unsheathed from my cushioned feet 

My curving claws, and stretched me. 
And wandered my mate to greet. 

We toyed in the amber moonlight, 
Upon the warm flat sand, 

And struck at each other our massive arms- 
How powerful he was and grand ! 

His yellow eyes flashed fiercely 
As he crouched and «"azed at me. 



A Ti'casury of Favorite Poems. 139 



And his quivering tail, like a serpent, 

Twitched curving nervously. 
Then like a storm he seized me, 

With a wild triumphant cry, 
And we met, as two clouds in heaven 

When the thunders before them fly. 
We grappled and struggled together, 

For his love, like his rage, was rude ; 
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck 

At times, in our play, drew blood. 

Often another suitor — 

For I was flexile and fair — 
Fought for me in the moonlight. 

While I lay crouching there, 
Till his blood was drained by the desert ; 

And ruffled with triumph and power, 
He licked me and lay beside me 

To breathe him a vast half-hour. 
Then down to the fountain we loitered. 

Where the antelopes came to drink ; 
Like a bolt we sprang upon them. 

Ere they had time to shrink, 
We drank their blood and crushed them, 

And tore them limb from limb, 
And the hungriest lion doubted 

Ere he disputed with him. 
That was a life to live for ! 

Not this weak human life, 
With its frivolous bloodless passions, 

Its poor and petty strife ! 



40 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



Come to my arms, my hero. 

The shadows of twiUght grow, 
And the tiger's ancient fierceness 

In my veins begins to flow. 
Come not cringing to sue me ! 

Take me with triumph and power, 
As a warrior storms a fortress ! 

I will not shrink or cower. 
Come, as you came in the desert. 

Ere we were women and men, 
When the tiger passions were in us. 

And love as you loved me then ! 

W. Vv^. Story. 

THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against 
Keth-peor ; but no man knoweih of his sepulchre unto this day." 

By Nebo's lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in the land of Moab 

There lies a lonely grave. 
And no man knows tnat sepulchre, 

And no man saw it e'er, 
For the angels of God upturn 'd the sod 

And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever pass'd on earth ; 
But no man heard the trampling. 

Or saw the train go forth — 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



141 



Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes back when night is done, 

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
Grows into the i/reat sun. 




^^W' 



Perchance the lion stalking, 
Still shuns that hallowed spot. 



Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves. 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves ; 
So without sound of music, 

Or voice of them that wept, 
Silently down from the mountain's crown 

The great procession swept. 



142 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gray Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his lonely eyrie 

Look'd on the wondrous sight ; 
Perchance the lion stalking, 

Still sl^ins tliat hallovv'd spot, 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

But when the warrior dieth. 

His comrades in the war. 
With arms reversed and muffled drum, 

Follow his funeral car ; 
They show the banners taken. 

They tell his battles won. 
And after him lead his masterless steed, 

While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 

We lay the sage to rest. 
And give the bard an honor'd place, 

With costly marble drest, 
In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall, 
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings 

Along the emblazon'd wall. 

This was the truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword. 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 143 

And never earth's philosopher 

Traced, with his golden pen, 
On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor, — 

The hillside for a pall, 
To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers tall, 
And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes, 

Over his bier to wave, 
And God's own hand, in that lonely land, 

To lay him in the grave ? 

In that strange grave without a name, 

Whence his uncoffin'd clay 
Shall break again, O wondrous thought ! 

Before the judgment day. 
And stand with glory wrapt around 

On the hills he never trod. 
And speak of the strife that won our life 

With the Incarnate Son of God. . 

O lonely grave in Moab's land ! 

O dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 

And teach them to be still. 
God hath His mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 

Of him He loved so well. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 



144 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO. 
With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo 

hath appeared 
Before them all in the palace hall, the lying King to 

beard ; 
With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in 

reverend guise, 
But ever and anon he frowned, and flame broke 

from his eyes. 

" A curse upon thee," cries the King, " who comest 

unbid to me ; 
But what from traitor's blood should spring, save 

traitors like to thee ? 
His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart ; perchance our 

champion brave 
May think it were a pious part to share Don San- 

cho's grave." 

" Whoever told this tale the King hath rashness to 

repeat," 
Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling before The 

Liar's feet! 
No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine 

doth lie ; 
Below the throne what knight will own the coward 

calumny } 

" The blood that I like water shed, when Roland 

did advance. 
By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves 

of France ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 145 

The life of King Alphonso I saved at Roncesval, — 
Your words, Lord King, are recompense abundant 
for it all. 

" Your horse was down, — your hope was flown, — I 

saw the falchion shine, 
That soon had drunk your royal blood, had I not 

ventured mine ; 
But memory soon of service done deserteth the in- 

grate ; 
You've thanked the son for life and crown by the 

father's bloody fate. 

" Ye swore upon your kingly faith, to set Don 

Sancho free ; 
But, curse upon your paltering breath, the light he 

ne'er did see ; 
He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's 

base decree, 
And visage blind, and stiffened limb, were all they 

gave to me. 

" The King that swerveth from his word hath 

stained his purple black ; 
No Spanish lord will draw the sword behind a liar's 

back ; 
But noble vengeance shall be mine, an open hate 

I'll show, — 
The King hath injured Carpio's line and Bernard is 

his foe." 



146 A Treasu7y of Favorite Poems, 

" Seize, seize him !" loud the King doth scream ; 
" there are a thousand here ! 

Let his foul blood this instant stream. What ! cai- 
tiffs, do ye fear ? 

Seize, seize the traitor!" — But not one to move a 
finger dareth, 

Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his 
sword he bareth. 

He drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it 

up on high, 
And all the hall was still as death ; cries Bernard : 

" Here am I, — 
And here is the sword that owns no lord, excepting 

heaven and me ; 
Fain would I know who dares his point, — King, 

Conde, or Grandee." 

Then to his mouth the horn he drew (it hung below 

his cloak) ; 
His ten true men the signal knew, and through the 

ring they broke ; 
With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights 

the circle brake, 
And back the lordlings 'gan to stand and the false 

King to quake. 

"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "what means 

this warlike guise ? 
Ye know full well I jested, — ye know your worth I 

prize." 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 147 



But Bernard turned upon his heel, and smiling 

passed away ; 
Long rued Alphonso and his realm the jesting of 

that day. 

J. G. LOCKHART. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard. 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, 
Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood. 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood. 

On old Plat^a's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquer 'd there. 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far, as they. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 149 

An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke, to hear his sentries shriek, 
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
He woke, to die 'midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
" Strike, till the last arm'd foe expires ; 
Strike, for your altars and your tires ; 
Strike, for the green graves of your sires ; 

God and your native land ! " 

They fought, like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground' with Moslem slain; 
They conquer'd — but Bozzaris fell. 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah. 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death, 
Come to the mother's, when she feels. 

For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 
Come when the blessed seals 

That close the pestilence are broke, 

And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 



150 A Treas2i7'y of Favorite Poems, 

Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance and wine ; 
And thou art terrible — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free. 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word. 
And in its hollow tones are heard - 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought, 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought, 

Come in her crowning hour, and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prison 'd men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world- seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm. 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 151 

Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in hef own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wa^'e its plume, 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree. 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 

But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee she rings the birth-day bells, 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives, for thy sake, a deadlier blow; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years. 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears ; 

And she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys, 
And e\'en she who gave thee birth. 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 

Fitz-Greexe Halleciv 



152 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

IVRY. 
A Song of the Huguenots. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 
glories are ! 

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of 
Navarre ! 

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of 
dance. 

Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O 
pleasant land of France ! 

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city 
of the waters. 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- 
ing daughters ; 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our 

joy. 

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought 

thy walls annoy. 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turn'd the 

chance of war, 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivr^-, and Henry of Navarre. 

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn 
of day 

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long 
array ; 

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel 
peers, 

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flem- 
ish spears. 



A Treasury of Favorite Foems. 153 



There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses 

of our land ; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon 

in his hand : 
And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's 

empurpled flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his 

blood ; 



And we cried unto the living 
God, who rules the fate 
of war, 




Press where ye see my white plume shine. 



To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of 

Navarre, 
The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor 

drest. 



154 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 

gallant crest. 
He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his 

eye ; 
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was 

stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from 

wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save 

our Lord, the King ! " 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he 

may, 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody 

fray. 
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst 

the ranks of war. 
And be your orifiamme to-day the helmet of 

Navarre." 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the 
mingled din, 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar- 
ing culverin. 

The fieiy Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's 
plain, 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Al- 
mayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of 
France, 

Charge for the golden lilies ! upon them with the 
lance ! 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 155 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 

spears, in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the 

snow-white crest ; 
And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a 

guiding star, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 

Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne 

hath turn'd his rein. 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish 

count is slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a 

Biscay gale ; 
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, 

and cloven mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along 

our van, 
" Remember St. Bartholomew I" was pass'd from. 

man to man. 
But out spake gentle Henr\-, " No Frenchman is my 

foe : 
Down, down, with ever}' foreigner, but let your 

brethren go." 
Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or 

in war, 
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henn% the soldier of 

Navarre } 
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought 

for France to-day ; 



156 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



And many a lordly banner God gave them for a 

prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best in 

fight; 
And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet 

white. 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath 

ta'en, 
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of 

false Lorraine. 
Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all the host 

may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house which 

wrought his Church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their 

loudest point of war. 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of 

Navarre. 

Ho! maidens of Vienna^ ho! matrons of Lucerne; 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who 

never shall return. 
Ho ! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pi;Uoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor 

spearmen's souls. 
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your 

arms be bright ; 
Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and 

ward to-night. 
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath 

raised the slave, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 157 

And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valor 

of the brave. 
Then glory to His hoi}- name, from whom all glories 

are ; 
And gloiy to our Sovereign Lord, King Henr)- of 

Navarre. 

Tho-mas Ladingtux ISIacaulay. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
FRO.M GHENT TO AIX. 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 

I gallop'd, Dirck gallop'd, we gallop'd all three , 

" Good speed !" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts 

undrew ; 
" Speed I" echo'd the wall to us galloping through ; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest. 
And into the midnight we gallop'd abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 

place ; 
I turn'd in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shorten'd each stirrup, and set the pique 

right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chain 'd slacker the bit, 
Nor gallop'd less steadih' Roland a \\\\\\. 

'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twiliuht dawn'd clear : 



158 A Treasury of Favorite Poeins. 

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the 

half-chime, 
So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time !" 

At Aerschot, up leap'd of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent 

back 
For my voice, and the other prick'd out on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! 
y\nd the thick heavy spume flakes which aye and 

anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groan'd ; and cried Joris, " Stay 



spur 



Your Roos gallop'd bravely, the fault's not in her; 
We'll remember at Aix — " for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretch'd neck, and staggering 

knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 
As down on her haunches she shudder'd and sank. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poeuis. 159 

So we were left galloping, Jons and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
The broad sun above laugh'd a pitiless laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 

chaff ; 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 
And " Gallop," gasp'd Joris, "for Aix is in sight ! 

" How they'll greet us !" — and all* in a moment his 

roan 
Roll'd neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the new^s w^hich alone could save Aix from her 

fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall. 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. 
Stood up in the stirrup, lean'd, patted his ear, 
Call'd my Roland his pet-name, my horse without 

peer; 
Clapp'd m}- hands, laugh'd and sang, any noise, bad 

or good. 
Till at length into Aix Roland gallop'd and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends flocking round 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the 

ground, 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I pour'd down his throat our last measure of wine. 



i6o A Tj'casiwy of Favorite Poems. 




''• Till at length into Aix Roland gallop'd and stood. 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news 

from Ghent. 

Robert Browning. 

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 

Word was brought to the Danish king 

(Hurry !) 
That the love of his heart lay suffering 
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; 
(Oh ride as though you were flying !) 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. i6i 

Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl ; 
And his Rose of the Isles is dying ! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 

(Hurry !) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 

(Oh ride as though you were flying !) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out chargers stagger'd and sank ; 
Bridles were slacken'd, and girths were burst ; 
But ride as they would, the king rode first, 

For his Rose of the Isles lay dying ! 

His nobles are beaten one by one ; 

(Hurry !) 
They have fainted, and f alter 'd, and homeward 

gone; 
His little fair page now follows alone, 

For strength and for courage trying. 
The king look'd back at that faithful child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 
They pass'd the drawbridge with clattering din, 
Then he dropp'd ; and only the king rode in 

Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying ! 

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 

(Silence !) 
No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 



1 62 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

An echo return'd on the cold gray morn, 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the king from that weary ride : 
For dead, in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. 

Who had yearn'd for his voice while dying ! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, 

Stood weary. 
The king return'd from her chamber of rest. 
The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 

And, that dumb companion eying. 
The tears gush'd forth which he strove to check ; 
He bow'd his head on his charger's neck : 
" O steed — that every nerve didst strain. 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 

To the halls where my love lay dying !" 

Caroline Norton. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax. 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day. 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds. 
That ope in the month of May. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 163 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main : 
I pray thee, put into yonder port. 

For I fear a hurricane. 

Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see !" 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

Come hither ! come hither! my little daughter. 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 
Against the stinging blast ; 



164 A Treasiny of Favof^ite Poems. 



He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
And bound her to the mast. 

O father ! I hear the church-bells ring-, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !" — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be.?" 
Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angr)^ sea !" 

O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be.?" 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. 
With his face turned to the skies. 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming 
snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That savM she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the 
wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear. 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 165 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Look soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast. 
To see the form of a maiden fair. 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed. 

On the billow^s fall and rise. 



1 66 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow^ 

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound. 

Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
And I'll give thee a silver pound 

To row us o'er the ferry." 

" Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle, 

This dark and stormy water? ' 
" Oil ! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 

And this — Lord UUin's daughter. 

" And fast before her father's men, 
Three days we've fled together. 
For should he find us in the glen. 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 
Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover ?" 

Out spake the hardy Highland wight, 

" I'll go, my chief — I'm ready : 
It is not for your silver bright, 

But for your winsome lady : 



A Tr easier y of Favorite Poems. 167 

" And, by my word ! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 
I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this, the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking ; 

And, in the scowl of heaven, each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still, as wilder blew the wind, 

And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men. 

Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" Oh haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather, 
I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her— 
When, oh, too strong for human hand. 

The tempest gather'd o'er her. 

And still they row'd, amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing : 
Lord Ullin reach 'd that fatal shore, 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For, sore dismay 'd, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover ; 
One lovely arm she stretch'd for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 



1 68 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 




'• ' Come back ! come back !' he cried in gku 



Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, 

" Across this stormy water : 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter ! O my daughter !" 



'Twas vain ; the loud waves lash'd the shore, 

Return, or aid preventing : 
The waters wild went o'er his child. 

And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell. 



A Treasury of Fa7)orite Poems. 169 



LOCHINVAR. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, — 
Through all. the wide Border his steed was the 

best. 
And save his good broadsword he weapons had 

none, — 
He rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never v/as knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for 

stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford there was 

none, 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall, 

'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and 

all. 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 

sword 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)^ 
" Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 

" I long woo'd your daughter, — my suit you denied ; 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; 



lyo A Treasury of Favorite Poems, 

And now am I come, with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely, by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochin- 
var." 

The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up, 
He quaff'd off the wine and he threw down the 
cup. 




" So LIGHT TO THE CROUPE THE FAIR LADY HE SWUNG. 



She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to 

sigh. 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar : 
"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 171 



So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace, 

While her mother did fret, and her father did 

fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

plume. 
And the bridemaidens whisper'd, " 'Twere better by 

far 
To ha^'e match'd our fair cousin with young Loch- 
invar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger 

stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and 

scaur ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Grasmes of the Neth- 

erby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 

they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochin- 
var? 

Sir Walter Scott. 



172 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May mornin' long ago. 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springin' fresh and green. 

And the lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red was on your lip, Mar)', 

And the love-light in your e)e. 

The place is little changed, Mary ; 

The day is bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear. 

And the corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And )our breath, warm on my cheek ; 
And I still keep list'nin' for the words 

You never more will speak. 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane. 

And the little church stands near — 
The church where we were wed, Mary ; 

I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest — 
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 

With your baby on your breast. 

I'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 



^^ 




i^^m 







174 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

But, oh ! they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all I had, Mar}^ — 

My blessing and my pride : 
There's nothing left to care for now. 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on. 
When the trust in God had left my soul. 

And my arm's young strength was gone 
There was comfort ever on your lip. 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless vou, Mary, for that same. 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile 

When your heart was fit to break — 
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there. 

And you hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the pleasant word. 

When your heart was sad and sore — 
Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mar}% 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I'm biddin' you a long farewell. 

My Mary — kind and true ! 
But I'll not forget you, darling. 

In the land I'm goin' to ; 
They say there's bread and work for all, 

And the sun shines always there — 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 175 

But I'll not forget old Ireland, 
Were it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I'll sit, and shut my eyes, 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ! 
And I'll think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, 

When first you were my bride. 

Lady Dufferin. 

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither. 
And monie a cantie day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

And hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo, 

Robert Burns. 



176 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye come 

hame, 
When a' the world to sleep are gane, 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, 
While my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel and sought me for his 

bride, 
But sa\'ing a crown, he had naething else beside 
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea. 
And the crown and the pound were baith for me. 
He hadna been gane a week but only twa, 
When my father brake his arm, and our cow was 

stown awa' ; 
My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea. 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courting me. 

My father couldna work — and my mither couldna 

spin ; 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in 

his e'e. 
Said, " Jennie, for their sakes, will you no marr}' me ?" 

My heart it said na ; I looked for Jamie back ; 

But the wind it blew high and the ship it was a 

wrack ; 
The ship it was a wrack — why didna Jennie dee ? 
Oh, why do I live to say, Oh, wae's m.e ! 




"I WISH THAT I WERE DEAD, BUT I'm NO LIKE TO 



DEE." 



178 A Treasufy of Favorite Poeim 



My father argued sair : my mither didna speak ; 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to 

break : 
They gie'd him my hand, tho' my heart was at the 

sea ; 
And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four. 
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I couldna think it he 
Till he said, " I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee." 

Oh, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say ; 
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away : 
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee ; 
Oh, why do I live to say, Oh, wae's me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. 
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be ; 
For auld Robin Gray is a kind man to me. 

Lady Anne Lindsay. 



A PLACE IN THY MEMORY. 

A PLACE in thy memor}^ dearest. 

Is all that I claim ; 
To pause and look back when thou hearest 

The sound of my name. 
Another may woo thee nearer. 

Another may win and wear ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 179 



I care not though he be 
dearer, ■ 
If I am remembered 
there. 

Remember me, — not as a 
lover 
Whose hope was cross- 
ed, 
Whose bosom can never 
recover 
The light it hath 
lost; 
As the young bride re- 
members the mother 
She loves, though she 
never may see. 
As a sister remembers a brother. 
Oh, dearest ! remember me. 




/ ''^i 






^^^ 



L0OI-: BACIC -WHEN THOU HEAREST.' 



Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 

Could'st thou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee ! 
But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, 

That never must burst upon thine ; 
And Heaven, that made thee all blooming 

Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Remember me, then — oh, remember 

My calm, light, pure love ; 
Though bleak as the blasts of November 

My life may prove. 



I So A Tr-easury of Favorite Poems. 



That life will, though lonely, be sweet, 
If its brightest enjoyment should be 

A smile and kind word when we meet. 
And a j)lace in thy memory. 

Gerald Griffin. 

LOVE'S FAREWELL. 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, — 
Nay 1 ha\e done, you get no more of me ; 

And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart. 
That thus so cleanly I myself can free; 

Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows 
And when we meet at any time again. 

Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we one jot of former love retain 

Now ;it the last gasp of love's latest breath. 
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies. 

When faith is kneeling by his bed of death. 
And innocence is closing up his eyes, 

--Now if thou would'st, when all have given him 

over, 
I'rom death to life thou might 'st him yet recover! 

Michael Drayton. 

THE WANDERER. 

(Rondel.) 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, — 
The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. i8i 

We see him stand by the open door, 
With his great eyes sad, and his bosom sweUing. 

He makes as though in our arms repelling, 
He fain would lie as he lay before ; — 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, — 
The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! 

Ah, who shall help us from over-telling 
That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore ! 
E'en as we doubt in our heart once more, 
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling. 
Love comes back to his vacant dweUing. 

Austin Dobson. 

LOVE NOT. 

Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! 

Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow- 
ers — 
Things that are made to fade and fall away 
Ere they have blossom 'd for a few short hours. 
Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing ye love may change ! 

The rosy lip may cease to smile on you. 
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange. 

The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 
Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing you love may die — 

May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; 



t82 a Treasury of Favorite Poejns. 

The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. 
Love not I 

Love not ! oh, warning vainly said 

In present hours as in years gone by ; 
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, 
Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. 
Love not ! 

Caroline Norton. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 
That lov'st to greet the early morn, 

Again thou usher'st in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 

O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast .^ 

That sacred hour can I forget. 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 

Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past. 



A Ti^easury of Favorite Poems. 183 

Thy image at our last embrace, — 
Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green. 

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 

The flowers sprang wanton to be press'd. 
The birds sang love on every spray — 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim 'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but the impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 

• 

My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast.? 

Robert Burns. 

FAREWELL TO NANCY. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 

Ae farewell, and then for ever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears Lll pledge thee ; 

Warring sighs and groans Lll wage thee. 

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him. 

While the star of hope she leaves him ? 



184 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



Me, nae cheer- 
ful twinkle 
lights me ; 
Dark despair around 
benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my 

IKutial fancy — 
Naething could re- 
sist my Nancy : ' 
But to see her was 

to love her, 
Love but her, and 

love for ever. 
Had wc never loved 
sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindl)', 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted ! 




Never met— or never parted, 

We had ne'er been eroken-hearted 



Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest I 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 

Ae farewell, alas ! for ever ! 

Deep in heart-WTung tears Fll pledge thee; 

Warring sighs and groans Fll wage thee. 

Robert Burns. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 185 




Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal availed on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere ^'ain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 

Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast and in my brain. 
Awake the pangs that pass not by. 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel : 
I only know we loved in \'ain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

Lord Bvron. 

THE DYING LOVER. 



The grass that is under me now 
Will soon be over me, sweet ; 



1 86 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

When you walk this way again 
I shall not hear your feet. 

You may walk this way again, 
And shed your tears like dew ; 

They will be no more to me then 
Than mine are now to you ! 

R. H. Stoddard. 

A FAREWELL. 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you ; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For CA-ery day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; 
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long ; 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingsley. 

LUCY. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise. 

And very few to love ; 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half-hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 



A Treasu7'y of Favorite Poems. 187 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh ! 

The difference to me ! 

William Wordsvvokth. 




But she is in her grave, and, oh ! the difference to me !' 



ANNABEL LEE. 

It was many and many a year ago. 

In a kingdom by the sea. 
That a maiden there lived, whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 



A Treasicry of Favorite Poems . 



And this was the reason that, long ago, 
In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 




" i was a child and she was a child, 
In this kingdom by the sea." 

So that her high-born kinsman came 
And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre 
In this kingdom by the sea. 



The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
Went envying her and me, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 189 



Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above. 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me 
dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride. 
In the sepulchre there by the sea. 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Por. 

ADIEU. 

Let time and chance combine, combine. 
Let time and chance combine ; 
The faintest hoi)e from heaven above. 
That love of yours was mine. 

My dear, 
That love of yours was mine. 



90 A Tr easier y of Favorite Poems. 

The past is fled and gone, and gone, 
The past is fled and gone ; 
If nought but pain to me remain, 
I'll fare in memor}^ on, 

My dear, 
I'll fare in memory on. 

The saddest tears must fall, must fall, 
The saddest tears must fall ; 
In weal or woe, in this world below, 
I love you ever and all, 

My dear 
I love you ever and all. 

A long road full of pain, of pain, 

A long road full of pain ; 

One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part. 

We ne'er can meet again, 

My dear, 
We ne'er can meet again. 

Hard fate will not allow, allow. 

Hard fate will not allow ; 

We blessed were as the angels are, — 

Adieu forever, now% 

My dear, 
Adieu forever, now. 

Thomas Carlyle. 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
Sit and watch by her side an hour. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 191 



That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She pluck'd that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut — no light may pass. 

Save two long rays thro' the hinges' chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name- 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares ; 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckon'd unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old. 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide^ 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow-mortals — naught beside } 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 

And creates the love to reward the love ; 
I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 

Delay 'd, it may be, for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 






" %l/^ 
^^^ 




Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few. 



A Treasury of Favorite Pocdis. 193 

Tvluch is to learn and much to forget 
Ere the thne be come for taking- you. 

But the time will come — at last it will — 

When, Evel)n Hope, what meant, I shall say, 
In the lower earth — in the years long still — 

That body and soul so gay ? 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in tine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gain'd me the gains of various men, 

Ransack'd the ages, spoil'd the climes ; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope. 

Either I miss'd or itself miss'd me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved }ou, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seem'd full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile 

And the red young mouth and the hair's young 
gold. 
So hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember and understand. 

Robert Browning. 



194 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



CHANGES. 

Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed, 
Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not 

The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 
And then, we women cannot choose our lot. 

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear ; 

Much given away which it were sweet to keep. 
God help us all ! who need, indeed, His care. 

And yet, I know the Shepherd loves His sheep. 

My little boy begins to babble now 

Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. 

He has his father's eager eyes, I know ; 

And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair. 

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee. 
And I can feel his light breath come and go, 

I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) 
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago ; 

Who might have been ... ah, what I dare not 
think ! 

We are all changed. God judges for us best. 
God help us do our duty, and not shrink, 

And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. 

But blame us women not, if some appear 
Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light. 

Some grief s gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear, 
Who knows the past? and who can judge us 
right } 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 195 

Ah, were we judged by what we might ha\-e been, 
And not by what we are — too apt to fall ! 

My little child — he sleeps and smiles between 

These thoughts and me. In Heaven we shall 
know all ! 

Robert Bulwer Lytton. 



WHAT IS HE BUZZING IN MY EARS? 

What is he buzzing in my ears ? 

Now that I come to die, 
Do I view the world as a vale of tears ? 

Ah, reverend sir, not I. 

What I viewed there once, what I view again, 

Where the physic bottles stand 
On the table's edge, is a suburb lane, 

With a wall to my bedside hand. 

That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 

From a house you could descry 
O'er the garden-wall. Is the curtain blue 

Or green to a healthy eye ? 

To mine, it serves for the old June weather, 

Blue above lane and wall ; 
And that farthest bottle, labelled " Ether," 

Is the house o'ertopping all. 

At a terrace somewhat near its stopper, 
There watched for me, one June, 



196 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



A girl — I know, sir, it's improper ; 
My poor mind's out of tune. 

Only there was a way — you crept 

Close by the side, to dod^^e 
Eyes in the house — two eyes except. 

They styled their house " The Lodge." 

What right had a lounger uj) their lane } 

But by creeping very close, 
With the good wall's help their eyes might strain 

And stretch themselves to oes, 

Yet never catch her and me together. 

As she left the attic — there, 
By the rim of the bottle labelled " Ether" — 

And stole from stair to stair, 

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas ! 

We loved, sir ; used to meet. 
How sad and bad and mad it was ! 

But then, how it was sweet ! 

Robert Browning. 

HIGHLAND MARY. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes. 

And there the langest tarry ; 



A Treasiwy of Favorite Poems. 197 

For there I took the last fareweel 
O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom 'd the gay green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp 'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipp'd my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mar}-. 

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly, 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance * 

That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
And mouldering npw in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ; 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

Ror.ERT B[iR>fs. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 





T'"- 



l.XZ\'~v'^ 



AACHEN all the world is young, 
lad, 
And all the trees are green ; 
And every goose a swan, lad, 
And every lass a queen ; 
, Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 

And round the world away ; 
Young blood must have its course, 
lad, 
And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad. 

And all the trees are brown ; 
And all the sport is stale, lad. 

And all the wheels run down : 
Creep home, and take your place there, 

The spent and maimed among : 
God grant you find one face there 

You loved when all was young. 

Charles Kingsley. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 199 



AUX ITALIENS. 

At Paris it was, at the opera there ; — 

And she look'd like a queen in a book that night. 
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair. 

And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that \^erdi wrote, 

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; 
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, 

The souls in purgatoiy. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; 

xA.nd who was not thriU'cl in the strangest way, 
As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low, 

" Xon ti scordar di me " ? 

The emperor there, in his box of state, 
Look'd grave, as if he had just then seen 

The red flag wave from the city gate, 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye : 

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back 
again. 

For one moment, under the old blue sky. 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well, there in our front-row box we sat 
Together, my bride betroth 'd and I ; 

My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, 
And hers on the stage hard by. 



200 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And both were silent, and both were sad ; 

Like a queen she lean'd on her full white arm, 
With that regal, indolent air she had. 

So contident of her charm ! 



I have not a doubt she 
was thinking then 

Of her former lord, 
good soul that he 
was. 
Who died the richest 
and roundest of 
men, 

The Marquis of Car- 
abas. 

I hope that, to get to the 
kingdom of heaven, 
Through a needle's 
eye he had not to 
pass ; 
I wish him well, for the jointure given 
To my lady of Carabas. 




Like a queen she lean 
full white arm, 



Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love. 
As I had not been thinking of aught for years, 

Till over my eyes there began to move 
Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time. 
When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together. 



A Treasury of Favorite Foems. 201 



In that lost land, in that soft clime, 
In the crimson e\'ening weather ; 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), 
And her warm white neck in its golden chain. 

And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, 
And falling loose again ; 

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast, 
(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower !) 

And the one bird singing alone to his nest, 
And the one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife. 

And the letter that brought me back my ring ; 

And it all seem'd then, in the waste of life, 
Such a very little thing ! 

For I thought of her grave below the hill. 
Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over. 

And I thought, " Were she only living still, 
How I could forgive her, and love her !" 

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour. 
And of how, after all, old things were best, 

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 
Which she used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet. 
It made me creep, and it made me cold ; 




When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together. 
In that lost land, in that soft clime." 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 203 



Like the scent that steals from the crumbling- sheet 
Where a mummy is half unroll'd. 

And I turn'd and look'd : she was sitting there, 
In a dim box over the stage, and drest 

In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair. 
And that jasmine in her breast. 

I was here : and she was there : 

And the glittering horse-shoe curved between. 
From my bride betroth'd, with her raven hair, 

And her sumptuous, scornful mien. 

To my early love, with her eyes downcast. 
And over her primrose face the shade. 

(In short, from the future back to the past 
There was but a step to be made.) 

To my early love from my future bride 

One moment I look'd. Then I stole to the door, 

I traversed the passage, and down at her side 
I was sitting, a moment more. 

My thinking of her, or the music's strain. 
Or something which never will be exprest, 

Had brought her back from the grave again. 
With the jasmine in her breast. 

She is not dead, and she is not wed, 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! 



204 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



And the very first word that her sweet Hps said, 
My heart grew youthful again. 

The Marchioness there, of Carabas, 

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, 
And but for her, — well, we'll let that pass — 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marr}^ my own first love. 

With her primrose face, for old things are best. 
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above 

The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is fiU'd with folly and sin. 
And love must cling where it can, I say. 

For beauty is easy enough to win. 
But one isn't loved every day. 

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, 
There's a moment when all would go smooth and 
even, 

If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 

But oh, the smell of that jasmine flower ! 
And oh, that music ! and oh, the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower : 
Nan ii scordar di me, 

No7i ti scordar di me ! 

Robert Bulwek Lytton. 



A Treasury of Fa-uoriie Poems. 205 




Before I trust my fate to thee, 

Or place my hand in thine, 
Before I let thy future give 
Color and form to mine, 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to- 
night for m_e. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the Past 
That holds thy spirit yet ? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I 
can pledge to thee ? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine, 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
Untouched, unshared by mine ? 
If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me, before all is 
lost. 



2o6 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, 

Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back, 
While I have staked the whole. 
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy 
tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulhl ? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still ? 
Speak now, — lest at some future day my whole 
life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit Change, 
Shedding a passing glory still 

On all things new and strange ? — 
It may not be thy fault alone, — but shield my heart 
against thy own. 

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day, 

And answer to my claim. 
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — 
Not thou — had been to blame ? 
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wih 
surely warn and save me now. 

Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear. 
The words would come too late ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 207 

Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
So, comfort thee, my Fate, — 
Whatever on my heart may fall — remember, I 
would risk it all ! 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



I ") U- ^-f.j ^u^\ V- V^,>.u'.. 




She was only a woman, famish'd for loving, 
Mad with devotion, and such slight things ; 

And he was a very great musician, 
And used to finger his fiddle-strings. 

Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking 
For a look, for a touch, — for such slight things ; 

But he's such a ver)^ great musician, 

Grimacing and fing'ring his fiddle-strings. 

Theophile Marzials. 

ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED. 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdain 'd 

For thee to disdain it. 



2o8 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother, 
And Pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not .what men call love ; 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not : 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING 
YOUNG CHARMS. 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 

Like fairy-gifts fading away, 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou 
art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And around the dear ruin each wish of rny heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own. 
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 

That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, 
To which time will but make thee more dear ; 



^1 Treasury of Favorite Poems. 209 

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets. 

The same look which she turned when he rose. 

Thomas Mooke. 

AUF WIEDERSEHEN. 
Summer. 

The little gate was reach'd at last. 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 

She push'd it wide, and, as she past, 

A wistful look she backward cast, 
And said, " Aiif IViederse/wn /" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again. 
Half doubting if she did aright. 
Soft as the dews that fell that night. 

She said, "An/ \Viedcrsehe71 F' 

■ The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, " Auf Wzedcrsehen f' 

'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 

I hear, " Aiif Wiedcrsehen /" 



2IO A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seenn'd too fain ! 
But these — they drew us heart to heart. 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, " Aiif Wicderschen /" 

James Russell Lowell. 

WHEN STARS ARE IN THE OUI'ET SKIES. 

When stars are in the quiet skies. 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea. 
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, 

Are stillest when they shine ; 
Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light 

Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angeb keep 

Familiar watch o'er men, 
When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep — 

Sweet spirit, meet me then ! 
There is an hour when holy dreams 

Through slumber fairest glide ; 
And in that mystic hour it seems 

Thou shouldst be by my side. 

My thoughts of thee too sacred are 

For daylight's common beam : 
I can but know thee as my star, 

Mv angel and my dream ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 211 

When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea. 

Edwakd Bulwer Lytton, 

THE CHESS-BOARD. 

I\Iy little love, do you remember. 

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, 
Those evenings in the bleak December, 
Curtain 'd warm from the snowy weather, 
When you and I play'd chess together. 

Checkmated by each other's eyes } 
Ah, still I see 3'our soft white hand 

Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. 
Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; 
The double Castles guard the wings ; 
The Bishop, bent on distant things, 

Moves sidling through the fight. 
Our fingers touch ; our glances meet. 

And falter ; falls your golden hair 
Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen 
Rides slow, her soldier}- all between, 

And checks me unaware. 
Ah me ! the little battle's done, 
Dispersed is all its chivalr\- ; 
Full many a game with Fortune play'd, — 
What is it we have won ? 
This, this at least — if this alone ; — 



212 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



That never, never, never more, 
As in those old still nights of yore 
(Ere ^ve were grown so sadly wise), 
Can you and I shut out the skies. 
Shut out the world, and wintry weather, 
And, eyes exchanging v/armth with eyes. 
Play chess, as then we play'd, together ! 

Robert Bulwer Lytton 

TO BEATRICE, 

THE squire's daughter. 

The girl I love is just fourteen. 

With face so sweet and bright. 
I think about her all the day, 

I dream of her at night. 
She never knows — how can she know ? — 

That I'm her lover true ; 
For I sit with the Bluecoat Boys, 

And she's in the Squire's pew. 
Yet still I strive her glance to meet — 

Her eyes are large and gray — 
There's only half a church between, 

But what a world away, my dear, 

Oh what a world away ! 

I watch her when the psalms begin, 

Singing so earnestly ; 
And I am sure I heard her voice 

Ring through the chant to me. 
I watch her when the vicar reads. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 213 




•' By the great pillar as she sits, she looks so slight and fair. 



And when we kneel to pray ; 
There's only half a church between, 
But what a world away, my dear, 
Oh what a world away ! 

By the great pillar as she sits, 
She looks so slight and fair ; 

The light of the stained window falls 
Upon her yellow hair. 



2 14 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

A bar of glowing amethyst ; 

And to myself I say : 
There's only half a church between, 

But what a world away, my dear. 

Oh what a world away ! 

If I were rich and I were free, 

How great would be my joy ! 
I'd be a grand Etonian, 

And not a Bluecoat Boy. 
Yet there she sits, her smile I know, 

Her smile I met to-day ; 
There's only half a church between, 

But what a world away, my dear, 

Ah what a world away ! 

May Kendai 

WE MET, 'TWAS IN A CROWD. 

We met — 'twas in a crowd — 

And I thought he would shun me ; 
He came — I could not breathe. 

For his eye was upon me ; 
He spoke, his words were cold. 

And his smile was unaltered ; 
I knew how much he felt, 

For his deep-toned voice falter'd ; 
I wore my bridal robe. 

And I rival'd its whiteness ! 
Bright gems were in my hair, 

How I hated their brightness \ 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



215 



He called me h\- my 
name — 
As the bride of an- 
other — 
Oh ! thou hast been the 
cause 
Of this ang-uish, my 
mother ! 



And once again we 
met, 
And a fair girl was 
near him ; 
He smil'd and whis- 
per'd low, 
As I once used to 
hear him ; 




'We met — 'twas in a crowd, 

And I THOUGHT HE WOULD SHUN ME. 



She leant upon his arm — 

Once 'tw£,s mine, and mine only— 
I wept, for I deserved 

To feel wretched and lonely ; 
And she will be his bride ! 

At the altar he'll give her 
The lo\'e that was too pure 

For a heartless deceiver ; 
The world may think me gay. 

For my feelings J smother — 
Oh ! thoit hast been the cause 

Of this anguish, my mother ! 



T. Haynes Bailey. 



2i6 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



THE AGE OF WISDOM. 

Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin 
That never has known the barber's shear, 




Pretty I'AGE with the dimpled chin. 



All your wish is woman to win, 
This is the way that boys begin, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Yean 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 217 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; 
Sighing and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass. 
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — 
Then you know a boy is an ass. 
Then you know the worth of a lass. 
Once you have come to Forty Year. 

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray. 

Did not the fairest of the fair 

Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was pass'd away } 

The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
May pray and whisper, and we not list, 
Or look away, and never be miss'd. 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier ! 

How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
Marian's married, but I sit here 
Alone and merry at Forty Year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



:8 A Treasury of FavoiHte Poems. 

THE MANLY HEART. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair ? 
Or my cheeks make pale with care 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day 
Or the flowery meads in May — 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how fair she be ? 

Shall my foolish heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind.; 
Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me. 

What care I how kind she be ? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her merit's value known 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of Best ; 
If she seem not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high. 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 



A Treasury of Favo7'ite Poems. 219 

Those that bear a noble mind 

When they want of riches find, 

Think what with them they would do • 

Who without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I though great she be ? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair ; 

If she love me, this belie\e, 

I will die ere she shall grieve ; 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can 'fecorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me. 
What care I for whom she be ? 

George Wither. 



COULD I HER FAULTS REMEMBER. 

Could I her faults remember. 

Forgetting ever\' charm, 
Soon would impartial Reason 

The tyrant Love disarm. 

But when, enraged, I number 

Each failing of her mind. 
Love, still, suggests each beauty, 

And sees, while Reason's blind. 

Richard Brixslev Sheridan. 



!2o A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

TAKE, OH TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. 

Take, oh take those lips away 
That so sweetly were forsworn. 

And those eyes, the break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn ! 

But my kisses bring again, 

Seals of love, though seal'd in vain. 

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow 
Which thy frozen bosom bears. 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 
Are yet of those that April wears. 

But first set my poor heart free. 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



MADRIGAL. 

Tell me where is Fancy bred, 
Or in the heart, or in the head } 
How begot, how nourished ? 
Reply, reply. 

It is engender'd in the eyes, 
With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies : 
Let us all ring Fancy's knell ; 
I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell, 
— Ding, dong, bell. 

William Shakespeake. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 




>- 
'•^ 



r^^ 



And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meets in her aspect and her eyes ; 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 



222 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face — 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Byron. 

MAID OF ATHENS. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast. 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 

TaIoTJ jlOV, GQQ ayCTTCJ. 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each yEgean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge. 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Za)?7 jjiov^ aag ayaTvu. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 223 

By all tlie token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 




Maid of Athens. 



Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone.- 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
ZuT] fiov^ aa.Q ayaKU). 



Lord Byrok. 



2 24 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



PALABRAS CARINOSAS. 

(Spanish Air.) 

Good-night ! I have to say good-night 
To such a host of peerless things ! 
Good-night unto that fragile hand 
All queenly with its weight of rings ; 
Good-night to fond, uplifted eyes, 
Good-night to chestnut braided hair. 
Good-night unto the perfect mouth. 
And all the sweetness nestled there — 
The snowy hand detains me, then 
I'll have to say Good-night again ! 

But there will come a time, my love, 

When, if I read our stars aright, 

I shall not linger by this porch 

With my adieus. Till then, good-night*! 

You wish the time were now? And I. 

You do not blush to wish it so ? 

You would have blushed yourself to death 

To own so much a year ago — 

What, both these snowy hands ! ah, then 
I'll have to say Good-night again ! 

T. B. Aldrich. 




In a Gondola.'" 



2 26 A Treasury of Favorite Poe^ns. 



IN A GONDOLA. 
I. 

The moth's kiss, first ! 

Kiss me as if you made believe 

You were not sure, this eve, 
How my face, your flower, had pursed 

Its petals up ; so, here and there 

You brush it, till I grow aware 
Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. 

II. 

The bee's kiss, now ! 

Kiss me as if you entered gay 

My heart at some noonday, 
A bud that dares not disallow 

The claim, so all is rendered up. 

And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 

Robert Browning. 




t 



22 8 A Treasury of Favorite Poems, 

AT THE CHURCH GATE. 

Although I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover ; 
And near the sacred gate. 
With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of her. 

The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming ; 
They've hush'd the minster bell : 
The organ 'gins to swell : 

She's coming, she's coming ! 

My lady comes at last. 
Timid, and stepping fast, 
And hastening hither, 
With modest eyes downcast : 
She comes — she's here — she's past- 
May Heaven go with her ! 

Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint ! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place. 
Lingering a minute, 



A TreasiLry of Favorite Poems. 229 



Like outcast spirits who wait 
And see through heaven's gate 
Angels within it. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

NOCTURNE. 

BELLAGGIO. 

Up to her chamber window 

A slight wire trellis goes, 
And up this Romeo's ladder 

Clambers a bold white rose. 

I lounge in the ilex shadows, 

I see the lady lean, 
Unclasping her silken girdle, 

The curtain's folds between. 

She smiles on her white-rose lover, 

She reaches out her hand. 
And helps him in at the window — 

I see it where I stand ! 

To her scarlet lips she holds him. 
And kisses him many a time — 

Ah, me ! it was he that won her 
Because he dared to climb ! 

T. B. Aldkich. 



230 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW. 

She is not fair to outward view 

As many maidens be ; 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me. 




Her very frowns are fairer far 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 



Oh then 1 saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 231 



But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply, 

And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her e}e : 

Her ver}' frowns are fairer far 

Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Hartley Coleridge, 

A DITTY. 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
By just exchange one to the other given : 

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
There never was a better bargain driven : 

]My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one. 

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides 

He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his because in me it bides : 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

FIDELE. 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun 

Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 
Golden lads and girls all must. 
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 



232 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak ; 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning flash 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan ; 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

William Shakespeare. 



STANZAS. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly. 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
What art can wash her guilt away } 

The only art her guilt to cover. 
To hide her shame from every eye. 

To give repentance to her lover 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 




'When lovely woman stoops to folly." 



234 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 




V 

'^^<^' 



«..> 
■^u 



That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 
No monarch but would give his crown. 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my heaven's extremest sphere. 
The pale which held that lovely deer : 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. 
Give me but what this riband bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round ! 

Edmund Waller. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 235 

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a Phantom of delight 
When first she gleam'd upon my sight ; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Daw^n ; 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 
To hunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her, upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A Creature, not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food — 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine ; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 



236 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd, 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 

William Wordsworth. 

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. 

When Love, with unconfined wings. 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair ; 

And fetter'd with her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crown'd. 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free — 
Fishes, that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, linnet-like, confined I 

With shriller note shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my king ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poetrts. 237 

Enlarged winds, that curl the flood. 
Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Richard Lovelace. 

BEAUTY AND TIME. 

The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, 
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, 
As she thought of the Gardener standing by — 
" He is old — so old ! And he soon will die !" 

The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, 
And she spread, and spread, till her heart lay bare ; 
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread — 
" He is older now. He will soon be dead!" 

But the breeze of the morning blew, and found 
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the 

ground ; 
And he came at noon, that Gardener old, 
And he raked them softly under the mould. 

And I wove the thing to a random rhyme. 
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener Time. 

Austin Dobson. 



238 A Treasiwy of Favo7-ite Poems. 






WHEN SHE COMES HOME. 



When she comes home again ! A thousand ways 

I fashion, to myself, the tenderness 

Of my glad welcome ; I shall tremble — yes ; 

And touch her, as when first in the old days 

I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise 

Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. 

Then silence : And the perfume of her dress ; 

The room will sway a little, and a haze 

Cloy eyesight — soulsight, even — for a space ; 

And tears — yes ; and the ache here in the throat, 

To know that I so ill deserve the place 

Her arms make for me ; and the sobbing note 

I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face 

Again is hidden in the old embrace. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 239 
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S. 

(A proper new ballad of the country and the town.) 

The ladies of St. James's 

Go swinging to the play ; 
Their footmen run before them, 

With a " Stand by ! Clear the way !" 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! 

She takes her buckled shoon, 
When we go out a-courting 

Beneath the harvest moon. 



The ladies of St. James's 

Wear satin on their backs ; 
They sit all night at Ombre, 

With candles all of wax : 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! 

She dons her russet gown 
And runs to gather May dew 

Before the world is down. 



The ladies of St. James's 

They're painted to the eyes 
Their white it stays forever, 

Their red it never dies : 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! 

Her color comes and goes ; 
It trembles to a lily, 

It wavers to a rose. 






AMU KUNSTO GATHER MaY UKVV BEFOKK THE VVOKLD IS DOWN. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 241 

The ladies of St. James's 

With " Mercy !" and with " Lud !" 
They season all their speeches 

(They come of noble blood) : 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! 

Her shy and simple words 
Are sweet as, after rain drops, 

The music of the birds. 



The ladies of St. James's 

They have their fits and freaks ; 
They smile on you — for seconds, 

They frown on you — for weeks : 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! 

Come either storm or shine, 
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide 

Is always true — and mine. 

My Phyllida ! my Phyllida ! 

I care not though they heap 
The hearts of all St. James's 

And give me ail to keep ; 
I care not whose the beauties 

Of all the world may be. 
For Phyllida— for Phyllida 

Is all the world to me I 

Austin Dobson. 



242 A Treasury of Faiwrite Poems. 

LIGHT. 

The night has a thousand eyes, 

And the day but one ; 
Yet the Hght of the bright world dies, 

With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the Hght of a whole life dies. 

When love is done. 

Francis W. Boukdillon. 

JENNY KISSED ME. 

Jenny kiss'd me when we met, 
Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 

Time, you thief ! who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in. 

Say I'm weaiy, say I'm sad ; 

Say that health and wealth have miss'd me ; 

Say I'm growing old, but add — 

Jenny kiss'd me ! 

Leigh Hunt. 

SHE WAS A BEAUTY. 

RONDEL. 

She was a beauty in the days 
When Madison was President ; 
And quite coquettish in her ways — 
On conquests of the heart intent. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poeifts. 243 



Grandpapa, on his right knee bent, 
Wooed her in stiff, old-fashioned phase — 
She was a beauty in the days 
When Madison was President. 



And when your roses where hers went 
Shall go, my Rose, who date from Hayes, 
I hope you'll wear her sweet content 
Of whom tradition lightly says : 
She was a beauty in the days 
When Madison was President. 

H. C. BUNNER. 



TOUJOURS AMOUR. 

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
At what age does Love begin ? 
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
Summers three, my fairy queen. 
But a miracle of sweets, 
Soft approaches, sly retreats. 
Show the little archer there. 
Hidden in your pretty hair; 
When didst learn a heart to win ? 
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 

" Oh !" the rosy lips reply, 

" I can't tell you if I tr}\ 

'Tis so long I can't remember : 

Ask some younger lass than I !" 



244 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Tell, oh tell me, Grizzled-Face, 
Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
When does hoary Love expire, 
When do frosts put out the fire ? 
Can its embers burn below 
All that chill December snow ? 
Care you still soft hands to press. 
Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? 
When does Love give up the chase ? 
Tell, oh tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 

" Ah !" the wise old lips reply, 

" Youth may pass, and strength may die ; 

But of Love I can't foretoken : 

Ask some older sage than I !" 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



WHAT BARD, O TIME, DISCOVER. 

What bard, O Time, discover 

With wings first made thee move ! 
Ah ! sure he was some lover 
Who ne'er had left his love ! 
For who that once did prove 
The pangs which absence brings, 
Tho' but one day 
He were away. 
Could picture thee with wings ? 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 245 



TO CELIA. 
I. 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 



II. 



I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee. 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be ; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe. 

And sent'st it back to me, 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself but thee. 

Ben Jonson. 



HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL 
FIFTEEN. 

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen ; 
Here's to the widow of fifty ; 



246 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 




" Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen. 

Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen, 
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. 
Let the toast pass, 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove 
An excuse for the elass. 



Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize 
Now to the maid who has none, sir ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 247 

Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, 
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. 

Let the toast pass, 

Drink to the lass, 

I'll warrant she'll pro\'e 
An excuse for the glass. 

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow ; 
Now to her that's as brown as a berry- ; 
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe. 
And now to the damsel that's merry. 

Let the toast pass. 

Drink to the lass, 

I'll warrant she'll prove 

An excuse for the glass. 

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, 
Young or ancient, I care not a feather ; 
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, 
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim. 
And let us e'en toast them together. 

Let the toast pass. 

Drink to the lass, 

I'll warrant she'll prove 

An excuse for the glass, 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 

A HEALTH. 

I FILL this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 



248 A Ti^e usury of Favorite Foejiis. 



To whom the better elements 
And kindly stars have given 

V? A form so fair, that, like the air, 
'Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, 
Like those of morning birds. 
And something more than mel- 
ody 

Dwells ever in her 
words ; 
The coinage of her 
heart are they. 
And from her lips 
each fiows, 
As one may see the 
burden'd bee 
Forth issue from the 
rose. 




Affections are as thoughts to her, 

The measures of her hours. 
Her feelings have the fragrancy. 

The freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past years ! 



Of her bright face one glance will trace 
A picture on the brain. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 249 



And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain ; 
But memor}', such as mine of her, 

So very much endears, 
When death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveUness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; — 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame. 
That life might all be poetry, 

And weariness a name. 

Edward Coate Pinkney. 

O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. 

O MY Luve's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June : 

my Luve's like the melodic 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry: 

Till a' the seas gang dr}', my Dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 

1 will luve thee still, my dear. 

While the sands o' life shall run. 



250 A Ti'easury of Favorite Poems. 




And fare thee weel, 
my only Lu\'e ! 
And fare thee weel 
a while ! 
And I will come 
again, my Luve, 
Tho' it were ten 
thousand mile. 



My Luve's like a red, red rose.' 



Robert Burns. 



THE WELCOME. 



Come in the evening, 
or come in the 
morning ; 

Come when you're 
looked for, or 
come without 
warning ; 

Kisses and welcome 
you'll find here 
before you, 

And the oftener you 
come here the 
more I'll adore 



you 



Light is my heart since the day we were plighted 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 251 




The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
And the Hnnets are singing, " True lovers don't 
sever !" 

II. 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

them ! 
Or, after you'v^e kiss'd them, they'll lie on my 

bosom ; 



252 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 

you ; 
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
Oh, your step's Hke the rain to the summer-vex'd 

farmer, 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above 

me, 
Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love 
me. 

III. 

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the 

eyrie ; 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the 

fairy; 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give 
her. 
Oh, she'll whisper you, — " Love, as unchangeably 

beaming, 
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully stream- 
ing ; 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 



IV. 



So come in the evening, or come in the morning ; 
Come when you're look'd for, or come without 
warning ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 253 



Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore 
you ! 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever. 
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't 
sever !" 

Thomas Osborne Davis. 

TOO LATE I STAYED. 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime — 

Unheeded flew the hours : 
How noiseless falls the foot of time 

That only treads on flowers ! 

And who, with clear account, remarks 

The ebbings of his glass. 
When all its sands are diamond sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass } 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings. 

When birds of paradise have lent 
Their plumage to his wings ? 

Robert William Spencek. 



A NICE CORRESPONDENT. 

The glow and the glory are plighted 
To darkness, for evening is come ; 



254 -^ Treasury of Faiwj'ite Poems. 

The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted ; 

The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. 
I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy 

Is summoned to dinner at Kew : 
I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy, — 

I'm thinking of you. 




"I'm thinking of you. 



1 wish you were here. Were I duller 
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear ; 

I am dressed in your favorite color, — 
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 25c 

I am wearing" my lazuli necklace. 

The necklace you fastened askew ! 
Was there e\'er so rude or so reckless 

A darling as you? 

I want you to come and pass sentence 

On two or three books with a plot ; 
Of course you know "Janet's Repentance" ? 

I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 
The stor)^ of Edgar and Lucy, 

How thrilling, romantic, and true ; 
The master (his bride was a goosey !) 

Reminds me of you. 

To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning 

The beacon ; its magic still lures, 
For there you discoursed about Browning- 

That stupid old Browning of yours. 
His vogue and his verv'e are alarming, 

I'm anxious to give him his due ; 
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming 

A poet as you. 

I heard how you shot at The Beeches, 

I saw how you rode Chanticleer, 
I have read the report of your speeches, 

And echoed the echoing cheer. 
There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,- 

I txwy their owners, I do ! 
Small marv^el that Fortune is making 

Her idol of you. 



256 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Alas for the world, and its dearly- 
Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss ! 

Sometimes I half wish I were merely 
A plain or a penniless miss ; 

But perhaps one is best with a measure 
Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too. 

That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, 
My dearest, to you. 



Your whim is for frolic and fashion, 

Your taste is for letters and art ; 
This rhyme is the commonplace passion 

That glows in a fond woman's heart. 
Lay it by in a dainty deposit 

For relics, — we all have a few ! — 
Love, some day they'll print it, because it 

Was written to you. 

Frederick Locker, 



HER LETTER. 

I'm sitting alone by the fire, 

Dress'd just as I came from the dance, 
In a robe ON^Vi. you would admire — 

It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason. 

My hair is done up in a cue : 
In short, sir, " the belle of the season" 

Is wasting an hour on you. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 257 



A dozen engagements I've broken ; 

I left in the midst of a set ; 
Likewise a proposal, half spoken, 

That waits — on the stairs — for me yet. 
They say he'll be rich — when he grows up- 

And then he adores me indeed ; 
And you, sir, are turning your nose up. 

Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

" And how do I like my position T' 

" And what do I think of New York ?" 
" And now, in my higher ambition. 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" 
" And isn't it nice to have riches, 

And diamonds and silks, and all that ?" 
" And aren't it a change to the ditches 

And tunnels of Poverty Flat .?" 

Well, yes — if you saw us out driving 

Each day in the park, four-in-hand — 
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 

To look supernaturally grand — 
If you saw papa's picture, as taken 

By Brady, and tinted at that, — 
You'd never suspect he sold bacon 

And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet just this moment, when sitting 
In the glare of the grand chandelier — 

In the bustle and glitter befitting 
The " finest soiree of the year," 



258 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



In the mists of ?iga2e de Chambery, 
And the hum of the smallest of talk — 

Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," 
And the dance that we had on " The Fork 

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 

Of flags festoon 'd over the wall ; 
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 

And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle ; 

Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis, 
And how I once went down the middle 

With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 
On the hill, when the time came to go ; 

Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 
From under their bedclothes of snow ; 

Of that ride — that to me was the rarest ; 

. Of — the something you said at the gate : 

Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress 

To "the best-paying lead in the State." 

Well, well, ifs all past ; yet it's funny 

To think, as I stood in the glare 
Of fashion and beauty and money. 

That I should be thinking, right there. 
Of some one who breasted high water. 

And swam the North Fork, and all that, 
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter. 

The Lily of Poverty Flat, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 259 

But goodness ! what nonsense I'm writing! 

(Mamma says my taste still is low), 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I'm spooning on Joseph — heigh-ho ! 
And I'm to be "finish'd" by travel — 

Whatever's the meaning of that — 
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 

In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 

Good-night — here's the end of my paper ; 

Good-night — if the longitude please — 
For maybe, while wasting my taper, 

Yoitr sun's climbing over the trees. 
But know, if you haven't got riches, 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
That my heart's somewhere there in the 
ditches, 

And you've struck it — on Poverty Flat. 

F. Bret Harte. 



WHAT MY LOVER SAID. 

By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom, 

In the orchard path he m.et me ; 
In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume. 
And I tried to pass, but he made no room, 

Oh I tried, but he would not let me. 
So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red, 

With my face bent down above it, 
While he took my hand as he whispering said- 



26o A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

(How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head, 
To listen to all that my lover said ; 
Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it !) 

In the high, wet grass went the path to hide. 

And the low, wet leaves hung over ; 
But I could not pass upon either side, 
For I found myself, when I vainly tried. 

In the arms of my steadfast lover. 
And he held me there and he raised my head, 

While he closed the path before me. 
And he looked down into my eyes and said — 
(How the leaves bent down from the boughs o'er- 

head. 
To listen to all that my lover said ; 

Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me !) 

Had he moved aside but a little way, 

I could surely then have passed him ; 
And he knew I never could wish to stay. 
And would not have heard what he had to say, 

Could I only aside have cast him. 
It was almost dark, and the moments sped, 

And the searching night wind found us, 
But he dre^v me nearer and softly said — 
(How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead, 
To listen to all that my lover said ; 

Oh, the whispering wind around us !) 

I am sure he knew when he held me fast. 
That I must be all unwilling ; 



A Treasiiij of Favoi'ite Poems. 261 

For I tried to go, and I would have passed, 
As the night was come with its dew at last, 

And the sky with its stars was filling. 
But he clasped me close when I would have fled, 

And he made me hear his story, 
And his soul came out from his lips and said — 
(How the stars crept out when the white moon led, 
To listen to all that my lover said ; 

Oh, the moon and the stars in glory !) 

I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell, 

And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, 
Will carry my secret so safely and well 

That no being shall ever discover 
One word of the many that rapidly fell 

From the soul-speaking lips of my lover ; 

And the moon and the stars that looked over 
Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell 
They wove round about us that night in the dell. 

In the path through the dew-laden clover. 
Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell 

As they fell from the lips of my lover. 

Homer Greene. 



A MIDSUMMER SONG. 

Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up be- 
fore the day. 

And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making 
hay, 



262 A Treasm-y of Favorite Poems. 



And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that 

minds the mill, 
While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with 
a will, 
" Polly ! — Polly ! — The cows are in the corn ! 
Oh, where's Polly ?" 

From all the misty morning air there comes a sum- 
mer sound, — 

A murmur as of waters from skies, and trees and 
ground. 

The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill 
and coo. 

And over hill aiid hollow rings again the loud hal- 
loo : 
" Polly ! — Polly ! — The cows are in the corn ! 
Oh, where's Polly ?" 

Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with 

buzz and boom. 
And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms 

bloom. 
Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy 

blows, 
And down at the edge of the hollow a red and 

thorny rose. 
But Polly ! — Polly ! — The cows are in the corn ! 
Oh, where's Polly ? 

How strange at such a time of day the mill should 
stop its clatter ! 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 263 

The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders 

what's the matter. 
Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on 

the hill, 
While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that 
minds the mill. 
But Polly ! — Polly ! — The cows are in the corn ! 
Oh, where's Polly } 

R. W. Gilder. 

THE INDIAN WEED. 

This Indian weed, now withered quite, 
Though green at noon, cut down at night. 

Shows thy decay — 

All flesh is hay : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

The pipe, so lily-like and weak, 
Does thus thy mortal state bespeak ; 
Thou art e'en such — 
Gone with a touch : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

And when the smoke ascends on high, 

Thou then behold'st the vanity 
Of worldly stuff- 
Gone with a puff : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

And when the pipe grows foul within. 
Think on thy soul defiled with sin : 



264 A Ti'easury of Favorite Poems. 

For then the fire 
It does require : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

And seest the ashes cast away, 
Thou, to thyself thou mayest say 

That to the dust 

Return thou must : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

Anon, 



\ 




A Tj-easury of Favoi'iie Foenis. 265 



MY FRIEND AND PITCHER. 

The wealthy fool, with gold in store, 

Is still desirous to grow richer ; 
Give me but health, I'll ask no more. 

With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher. 
My friend so rare. 
My girl so fair. 
With such what mortal 
can be richer ? 
Possessed of these, a fig 
for care, 
My own sweet girl, my 
friend, and pitcher. 

From morning sun I'd 

never grieve 
To toil a hedger or a 

ditcher. 
If that, when I came home 

at eve, "If that, when I CAME HOME AT EVE 

I might enjoy my friend ^ '^"^"'^ ^^"J"'' '^'^ ^''^^^^^^ ^^^'^ itichek.' 
and pitcher. 

My friend so rare, 
My girl so fair, 
With such what mortal can be richer 7 

Possessed of these, a fig for care. 
My own sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher. 




Though fortune ever shuns my door, 
I know not what can thus bewitch her 



266 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

With all my heart I can be poor, 

With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher. 
My friend so rare, 
My girl so fair, 
With such what mortal can be richer ? 

Possessed of these, a fig for care, 
My own sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher. 

O'Keefe. 

WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 

My coachman, in the moonlight there, 
Looks through the side-light of the door ; 

I hear him with his brethren swear. 
As I could do, — but only more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane, 

He envies me my brilliant lot. 
Breathes on his aching fists in vain. 

And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me in to supper go, 

A silken wonder by my side. 
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 

Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is my arm 

'Neath its white-gloved and jewell'd load ; 
And wishes me some dreadful harm, 

Hearing the merry corks explode. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 267 



Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 

And envy him, outside the door, 
In golden quiets of the moon. 

The winter wind is not so cold 

As the bright smile he sees me win, 

Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

I envy him the ungyved prance 

By which his freezing feet he warms. 

And drag my lady's chains and dance 
The galley-slave of dreaiy forms. 

Oh, could he have my share of din. 

And I his quiet I^past a doubt 
'Twould still be one man bored within, 

And just another bored without. 

James Russell Lowell. 

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. 

'TWAS the night before Christmas, when all through 

the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with 

care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds. 
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their 

heads ; 



2 68 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash. 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow. 
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by 

name : 
" Now, Dasher ! now, Dancer ! now, Prancer ! now. 

Vixen ! 
On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! — ■ 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall ! 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all !" 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
He was dress'd all in fur from his head to his foot. 
And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and 

soot ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 269 



A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 

And he look'd like a peddler just opening his 

pack. 
His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples how 

merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
And the beard on his chin was as white as the 

snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He had a broad face and a little round belly 
That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of 

jelly. 
He was chubby and plump — a right jolly old elf — 
And I laugh'd when I saw him, in spite of myself. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
He spake not a word, but w^nt straight to his 

work, 
And filled all the stockings; then turn'd with a 

jerk, 
And laying his finger aside of his nose, 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle. 
And away they all fle\v like the down of a thistle ; 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of 

sight, 
" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night !' 

Clement C. Mooke, 



270 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



AT THE HEARTHSIDE. 

His children early laid away, 
His hearthside bright and still, 

The farmer's frowns are all that say 
The day has brought him ill. 

The mother slowly strokes her arms, 
Unsleeved and plump and fair ; 

In vain you'd try a hundred farms, 
To find her equal there. 

She softly nears the chimney nook 

Before she ventures more : 
So waters of a sunny brook 

Do woo the moody shore. 

If he, if he but lift his face— 

The hearth flames quicken, spring ; 

A yielding smile, his old embrace, 
And wife and kettle sing. 

John Vance Cheney, 



LITTLE THEOCRITUS. 

Ye white Sicilian goats, who wander all 

About the slopes of this wild mountain pass, 

Take heed your horny footsteps do not fall 
Upon the baby dreamer in the grass. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poevis. 271 

Let him lie there, half waking, and rejoice 
In the safe shelter of his resting-place, 

In hearing of his shepherd father's voice, 
In reach of fruity clusters o'er his face. 

Look up, sweet baby eyes, look up on high, 
To where Olympus merges in the blue. 

There dwell the deathless gods in majesty, 
The gods, who hold a mighty gift for you. 

Those little clinging hands shall write, one day, 
Rare, golden words, to lift the hearts of men ; 

Those curling, downy locks shall wear the bay, 
A crown that they shall never lose again. 

Little Theocritus ! Look up and smile, 

Immortal child, for there are coming years, 

When the great busy world shall pause awhile, 
To listen to your singing through its tears. 

Caroline W. Fellowes Paradise. 



PHILIP, MY KING. 

" Who bears upon his baby brow the round 
And top of sovereignty." 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

Philip, my king ! 
Round whom the enshadowing purple lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities : 



272 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 

With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; 

I am thine Esther to command 

Till thou shalt find a queen-hand-maiden, 
Philip, my king ! 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my king ! 
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 
Thou dost enter, love-crown'd, and there 

Sittest, love-glorified ! — Rule kindly, 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; 

For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my king ! 

Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers. 

My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer 
Let me behold thee in future years ! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my king — 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip, my king ! 
Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way 
Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 273 



^ 




Philip, my king !' 



Rebels within thee and foes without 

Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious. 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout. 

As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 
" Philip, the king !'' 

Dinah Muloch Craik. 



74 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



BABY. 

Where did you come from, baby dear ? 
Out of the ev^erywhere into here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue } 
Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ? 
Some of the starry spikes left in, 

W^here did you get that little tear } 
I found it waiting, when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and high ? 
A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose } 
I saw something better than any one knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ^ 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 
God spoke and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands ? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things } 
From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poetus. 275 

How did they all just come to be you ? 
God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
God thought about you, and so I am here. 

George Macdonald. 



CRADLE SONG. 

What is the little one thinking about ? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt. 

Unwritten history ! 

Unfathomed mystery ! 
Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 
And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
Warped by colic, and wet by tears. 
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears. 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 

And he'll never know 

When the summers go ; — 
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so ! 

Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown. 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 
Into the light of day } — 



276 A Treasury of Favorite Poe^ns. 

Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony, — 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Speckled with the barks of little souls — 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide ! 

What does he think of his mother's eyes? 
What does he think of his mother's hair ? 

What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

What does he think of his mother's breast — 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight — 

Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 
Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds- 
Words she has learned to murmur well ? 
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, 
Over his brow, and over his lips. 
Out to his little finger tips ! 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes ! down he goes ! 
See ! He is hushed in sweet repose : 

J. G. Holland. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 277 



THE ANGELS' WHISPER. 

A BABY was sleeping; 

Its mother was weeping ; 
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 

And the tempest was swelling 

Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 
And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come back 
to me !" 



Her beads while she number'd. 
The baby still slumber'd, 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee ; 
" Oh, blest be that warning. 
My child, thy sleep adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering with 
thee !" 



" And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! 
And say thou wouldst rather 
They'd watch o'er thy father ! 
For I know that the angels are whispering to 
thee." 



The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning, 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to 
see : 




" Sweet and low 



SWlilil ANiJ LOW. 



A Treastiiy of Favorite Poems. 279 

And closely caressing 
Her child with a blessing-, 
Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering 
with thee." 

Samuel Lover. 

"SWEET AND LOW." 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon and blow. 

Blow him again to me, 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest. 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

Alfred Tennyson. . 

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE. 

When I was sick and lay a-bed, 
I had two pillows at my head. 
And all my toys beside me lay 
To keep me happy all the day. 



280 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. ■ 

And sometimes for an hour or so 
I watched my leaden soldiers go, 
With different uniforms and drills. 
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills ; 

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets 
All up and down among the sheets ; 
Or brought my trees and houses out, 
And planted cities all about. 

I was the giant great and still 
That sits upon the pillow-hill, 
And sees before him, dale and plain. 
The pleasant land of counterpane. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

LITTLE MAMMA. 

Why is it the children don't love me 

As they do mamma? 
That they put her ever above me — 

" Little mamma " } 
I'm sure I do all that I can do. 
What more can a rather big man do, 
Who can't be mamma — 
Little mamma ? 

Any game that the tyrants suggest, 
" Logomachy," — which I detest,— 
Doll-babies, hop-scotch, or base-ball, 
I'm always on hand at the call. 



A Treasu7j of Favorite Poems. 281 

When Noah and the others embark, 
I'm the elephant saved in the ark. 
I creep, and I climb, and I crawl — 
By turns am the animals all. 
For the show on the stair 
I'm always the bear, 
The chimpanzee, or the kangaroo. 
It is never,' ' Mamma, — 
Little mamma, — 
Won't vou ?" 



My umbrella's the pony, if any — 
None ride on mamma's parasol : 
I'm supposed to have always the penny 
For bon-bons, and beggars, and all. 
My room is the one where they clatter — 
Am I reading, or writing, what matter ! 
My knee is the one for a trot. 
My foot is the stirrup for Dot. 
If his fractions get into a snarl 
Who straightens the tangles for Karl } 
Who bounds Massachusetts and Maine, 
And tries to bound fiimsy old Spain .^ 
Why, 

It is I,' 
Papa, — 

Not little mamma ! 

That the youngsters are ingrat&s don't say. 
I think they love me — in a way — 



282 A Ti-easury of Favorite Poems. 

As one does the old clock on the stair, — 
Any curious, cumbrous affair 
That one's used to having about, 
And would feel rather lonely without. 
I think that they love me, I say, 
In a sort of tolerant way ; 

But it's plain that papa 

Isn't little mamma. 

Thus when shadows come stealing anear. 

And things in the firelight look queer ; 

When shadows the play-room enwrap, 

They never cUmb into my lap 

And toy with my head, smooth and bare. 

As they do with mamma's shining hair; 

Nor feel round my throat and my chin 

For dimples to put fingers in ; 

Nor lock my neck in a loving vise, 

And say they're " mousies" — that's mice — 

And will nibble my ears. 

Will nibble and bite 
With their little mice-teeth, so sharp and so white, 
If I do not kiss them this very minute — 
Don't-wait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it. — 

Dear little papa ! 
That's what they say and do to mamma. 

If, mildly hinting, I quietly say that 
Kissing's a game that more can play at. 
They turn up at once those innocent eyes. 
And I suddenly learn to my great surprise 



A Treasu7y of Favorite Poems, 283 

That my face has " prickles" — 

My mustache tickles. 
If storming their camp, I seize a pert shaver, 
And take as a right what was asked as a favor. 

It is, "O papa, 

How horrid you are — 
You taste exactly like a cigar !" 

But though the rebels protest and pout, 
And make a pretence of driving me out, 
I hold, after all, the main redoubt, — 
Not by force of arms nor the force of will, 
But the power of love, which is mightier still. 
And very deep in their hearts, I know, 
Under the saucy and petulant " oh," 
The doubtful "yes," or the naughty " no," 
They love papa. 

And down in the heart that no one sees, 
Where I hold my feasts and my jubilees, 
I know that I would not abate one jot 
Of the love that is held by my little Dot 
Or my great big boy for their little mamma, 
Though out in the cold it crowded papa. 
I would not abate it the tiniest whit. 
And I am not jealous the least little bit ; 
For I'll tell you a secret : Come, my dears, 
And I'll whisper it — right-into-your-ears — 

I too love mamma. 

Little mamma ! 

Charles Henry Webb. 



284 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

EVEN THERE. 

A TROOP of babes in summer land, 
At heaven's gate — the children's gate : 

One lifts the latch with rosy hand, 

Then turns and dimpling, asks her mate — 

" What was the last thing that you saw ?" 
" I lay and watched the dawn begin, 

And suddenly, thro' the thatch of straw, 
A great, clear morning star laughed in." 

" And you .?" " A floating thistle down. 
Against June sky and cloud wings white." 

" And you .?" " A falling blow, a frown — 
It frights me yet ; oh, clasp me tight !" 

" And you ?" " A face thro' tears that smiled"- 
The trembling lips could speak no more ; 

The blue eyes swam ; the lonely child 
Was homesick even at heaven's door. 

Edward Rowland Sill. 



MARSH SONG. 

Over the monstrous shambling sea. 

Over the Caliban sea, 
Bright Ariel-cloud, thou lingerest : 
Oh wait, oh wait, in the warm red West, — 

Thy Prospero I'll be. 



A Ti-easuj-y of Favorite Poems. 285 

Over the humped and fishy sea, 

Over the Cahbaii sea, 
O cloud in the West, like a thought in the heart 
Of pardon, loose thy wing, and start. 

And do a grace for me. 



Over the huge and huddling sea 

Over the Caliban ?ea, 
Bring hither my 
brother Anto- 
nio, — Man, — 
Myinjurer: night 
breaks the ban ; 
Brother, I 
pardon 
thee. 

Sidney Lanier 



TO A WATER- 
FOWL. 



Whither, 
'midst falling 
dew. 
While glow the 
heavens with 
the last steps 
of day. 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
Thy soHtar)' way } 




Seek'st thou the flashy brink of weedy 

LAKE." 



2 86 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky. 

Thy figure floats along. 



Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 



There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast. 
The desert and illimitable air, 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fann'd, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest. 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend 

Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet, on my heart. 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. 

And shall not soon depart. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 287 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone. 
Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



THE SANDPH^ER. 

Across the narrow beach w^e flit. 

One little sandpiper and I ; 
And fast I gather bit by bit, 

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dr}^ 
The wild waves reach their heads for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 
As up and down the beach we flit — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 

Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 

Stand out the white light-houses high. 
Almost as far as eye can reach 

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
As fast we flit along the beach — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ; 

He starts not at my fitful song, 
Or flash of fluttering drapery; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

He has no thought of any wrong, 
He scans me with a fearless eye ; 

Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, 
The little sandpiper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, 

When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 
My driftwood fire will burn so bright ; 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 
I do not fear for thee though wroth 

The tempest rushes through the sky ; 
For are we not God's children both, 

Thou, little sandpiper, and I. 

Celia Thaxter. 



THE SKYLARK. 

Bird of the wilderness, 
Blythesome and cumberless. 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness. 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

O to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay and loud 
• Far in the downy cloud, 

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
Where, on thy dewy wing. 
Where art thou journeying } 

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 28 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 

O'er moor and mountain green, 
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day. 

Over the cloudlet dim, 

Over the rainbow's rim, 
Musical cherub, soar, singing away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 

Low in the heather blooms, 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
O to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 



THE BROOKSIDE. 

I wander'd by the brookside, 

I wander'd by the mill ; 
I could not hear the brook fiow, 

The noisy wheel was still : 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



I sat beneath the elm tree, 

I watch'd the long, long shade, 

And as it grew still longer 
I did not feel afraid ; 



290 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

For I listen'd for a footfall, 

I listen'd for a word ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 




He came not — no, he came not, — 
The night came on alone, — 

The little stars sat one by one, 
Each on his golden throne ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems 291 

The evening- air pass'cl by my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirr'd ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound -I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder, 

I knew its touch was kind ; 
It drew me nearer, nearer — 

We did not speak one word ; 
But the beating of our own hearts 

W^as all the sound we heard. 

Richard Monckton Milnes 

(Lord Houghton). 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadow'd main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- 



Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl 
Wreck'd is the ship of pearl ! 
And every chamber'd cell, 



292 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies reveal 'd, — 
Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal'd ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door. 
Stretch 'd in his last-found home, and knew the old 
no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea. 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 
that sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 293 



THE HUMBLE-BEE. 

BURLV, dozing humble-bee, 
Where thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek ;- 
I will follow thee alone, 
Thou animated torrid zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. 

Let me chase thy waving lines : 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer. 

Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion ! 
Sailor of the atmosphere. 
Swimmer through the waves of air, 
Voyager of light and noon, 
Epicurean of June, 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum, — 
All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days. 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall ; 
And, with softness touching all, 
Tints the human countenance 
With the color of romance ; 
And infusing subtle heats 
Turns the sod to violets, — 



2 94 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



Thou in sunny solitudes, 
Rover of the underwoods, 
The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow breezy bass. 

Hot Midsummer's petted crone, 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours. 
Long days, and solid banks of flowers 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found ; 
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen ; 
But violets, and bilberry bells, 
Maple sap, and daffodils. 
Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky, 
Columbine with horn of honey, 
Scented fern, and agrimony. 
Clover, catch-fly, adder's-tongue. 
And brier-roses, dwelt among : 
All beside was unknown waste. 
All was picture as he pass'd. 
Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breech 'd philosopher! 
Seeing only what is fair. 

Sipping only what is sweet. 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 

Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 295 



When the fierce north-western blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
Thou already slumberest deep ; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

Rali'h Waldo Emerson. 

THE IVY GREEN. 

Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 

That cfeepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay 'd. 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings. 

And a staunch old heart has he. 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, 

To his friend the huge Oak Tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground. 

And his lea\es he gently waves, 
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where grim Death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 



296 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Whole ages have fled and their works decay'd, 
And nations have scatter'd been ; 

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, 
From its hale and hearty green. 



^^^^' 



'^H>^ 




The brave old plant, in its lonely days, 
Shall fatten upon the past ; 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 297 

For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping on, where Time has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Charles Dickens. 

THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE. (1571.) 

The old mayor climb'd the belfr)- tower. 

The ringers rang by two, by three ; 
" Pull, if ye never pull'd before ; 
. Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
" Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells. 
Play uppe, ' The Brides of Enderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was naught of strange, beside 

The flights of mews and peewits pied 
By millions crouched on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore. 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis wandereth, 

My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 




"■The old mayor climbed the belfry tower.' 



A Treaswj of Favoi'ite Poems. 299 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 

Farre away I heard her song. 

" Cusha ! Cusha !" all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis tloweth, 

Floweth, floweth, 
From the meads where melick groweth 

Faintly came her milking-song — 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falling ; 
Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
Jetty, to the milking-shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago, 

When I beginne to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe sharpe and strong ; 
And all the aire, it seemeth mee. 
Bin full of floating bells fsayth shee), 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 



300 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shaclowe mote be scene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 

The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath. 

The shepherd-lads I heard afarre. 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till floating o'er the grassy sea 

Came downe that kyndly message free, 

The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, " And why should this thing be } 

What danger lowers by land or sea ? 

They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

'* For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne : 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby' Y' 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 301 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding down with might and main ; 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The old sea wall (he cried) is downe. 

The rising tide comes on apace, 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go saihng uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
"God save you, mother !" straight he saith 
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth .^" 

" Good Sonne, where Lindis winds her way. 
With her two bairns I mark'd her long. 

And ere yon bells beganne to play 
Afar I heard her milking song." 

He looked across the grassy lea, 

To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby !" 

They rang " The Brides of Enderby !" 

With that he cried and beat his breast ; 

For, lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre rear'd his crest. 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud, 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 



3© 2 A Tj'easury of FavojHte Poems. 

And rearing Lindis backward press'd 

Shook all her trembling bankes amame ; 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — ■ 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet ; 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roof we sate that night, 

The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I mark'd the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high- 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee. 

That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet he moan'd beneath his breath, 

"Oh come in life, or come in death! 

O lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 



A Treasury of Fmwrite Poems. 303 

And didst thou \isit him no more? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Dow^ne drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That fiow^ strewed wrecks al^out the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas I 

To manye more than myne and mee ; 

But each will mourn his own (she saith). 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cushal" calling. 
Ere the early dew^s be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
" Cusha ! Cusha !" all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the rheads where melick groweth, 
When the water winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see lier more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver; 
Stand beside the sobbing- river. 



304 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 

To the sandy lonesome shore ; 

I shall never hear her calling, 

" Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow ; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow. 
Jetty, to the milking-shed." 

Jean Ingklow. 



BUGLE SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle-walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, d)ing, dying. 

Oh hark ! oh hear ! how thin and clear. 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 305 

O love, they die in yon rich sk)-, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson, 

ST. AGNES. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward. 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soiled and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 



3o6 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



Break up the heav- 
ens, O Lord ! 
and far, 
Thro' all yon 
starlight keen, 

Draw me, Thy 
bride, a glitter- 
ing star. 
In raiment white 
and clean. 



He lifts me to the golden doors. 



He lifts me to the 
golden doors ; 
The flashes come 
and go ; 
All heaven bursts 
her s t a r ry 
floors. 
And strews her 
lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 
The Bridegroom with his bride ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 307 



HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; 
And dark as winter A\-as the flow 
Of Iser rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat at dead of night. 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle blade. 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven 
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven ; 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank and fier\- Hun 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 



3o8 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry. 

Few, few shall part where many meet ; 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet : 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had 
lowered 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground over 
powered, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw. 
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 

'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
back. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 309 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
young ; 
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 
sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never to 
part ; 
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of 
heart. 



Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

Thomas Campbell. 



MOTHER AND POET. 

(Turin. After news from Gaela, 1861.) 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east. 
And one of them shot in the west by the pea. 

Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free. 
Let none look at me ! 



3IO A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Yet I was a poetess only last year, 

And good at my art, for a woman, men said. 

But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 

The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head 
Forever instead. 



What art can a woman be good at } Oh vain ! 

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the 
pain ? 
Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you 
pressed. 
And / proud, by that test. 



What art's for a woman ? to hold on her knees 
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her 
throat 
Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees, 

And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat 
To dream and to dote. 



To teach them ... It stings there. / made them 
indeed 
Speak plain the word " country." / taught them, 
no doubt, 
That a country's a thing men should die for at 
need. 
/ prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 311 



And when their eyes flashed . . , O my beautiful 
eyes ! 
I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the sur- 
prise, 
When one sits quite alone ! Then one weeps, 
then one kneels ! 
— God ! how the house feels ! 

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled 

With my kisses, of camp-life and glory and how 
They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be 
spoiled, 
In return would fan off every flly from my brow 
With their green-laurel bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin. " Ancona was free !" 
And some one came out of the cheers in the 
street, 
With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. 
— My Guido was dead ! — I fell down at his feet, 
While they cheered in the street. 

I bore it — friends soothed me : my grief looked 
sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the 
time 
When the first grew immortal, while both of us 
strained 
To the height he had gained. 



312 A Treasu?y of Favorite Poems. 

And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more 
strong, 
Writ now but in one hand. " I was not to faint. 
One loved me for two . . . would be with me ere 
long- • 
And " Viva Italia" he died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint. 

My Nanni would add " he was safe and aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls . . . was 
imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear. 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, 
To live on for the rest." 

On which without pause up the telegraph line 
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — 
Shot. 
Tell his mother. Ah, ah, — "his," "their" mother: 
not " mine." 
No voice says " my mother" again to me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot ? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heav- 
en, 
They drop earth's affection, conceive not of woe } 
I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through that Lo\'e and Sorrow^ which reconciled 
so 
The Above and Below. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 313 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through 
the dark 
To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray, 
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark. 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes 
turned away, 
And no last word to sa}- 1 

Both boys dead I but that's out of nature. We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must always 
keep one. 
'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall. 
And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done 
If we have not a son ? 

Ah, ah, ah I when Gaeta's taken, what then ? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her 
sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men } 
When your guns of Cavalli with tinal retort 
Have cut the game short, — 

When \'enice and Rome keep their new jubilee. 
When your flag takes all heaven for its Nvhite, 
green, and red, 
\\\\^\\ you have your countr}- from mountain to sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And I have my dead,) 

What then } Do not mock me I Ah, ring your bells 
low, 



314 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And burn your lights faintly. My countiy is 
there, 
Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow. 
My Italy's there — with my brave ch'ic Pair, 
To disfranchise despair. 

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, 
And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. 
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at 
length 
Into wail such as this ! — and we sit on forlorn 
When the man-child is born. 

Dead ! — one of them shot by the sea in the west ! 

And one of them shot in the east by the sea ! 
Both ! both my boys ! — If in keeping the feast 

You want a great song for your Italy free. 

Let none look at inc ! 

E. B. Browning. 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 

" Give us a song !" the soldiers cried. 

The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 

Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay grim and threatening under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No long-er belch'd its thunder. 




"And Irish Nora's eyes are dim. 



3i6 A Treasury of Favorite Poevis. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while w^e may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 
Below the smoking cannon : 

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory: 
Each heart recall'd a different name, 

But all sang " Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak. 
But as the song grew louder. 

Something upon the soldier's cheek 
Wash'd off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd 
The bloody sunset's embers, 

While the Crimean valleys leam'd 
How Ensrlish love remembers. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 317 

And once again a fire of hell 

Rain'd on the Russian quarters, 
With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 

And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 

For a singer dumb and gory ; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of " Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honor'd rest 

Your truth and valor wearing : 
The bravest are the tenderest, — 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor. 

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE. 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
By all their Country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung. 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay. 
And Freedom shall a while repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collins. 



3i8 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



ODE. 

(Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confed- 
erate dead at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C, 1867.) 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, — 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ! 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause, 



In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone ! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold ! your sisters bring their tears. 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies. 

By mourning beauty crowned ! 

Henky Timrod. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 319 

TO LUCASTA, 
On Going to the Wars. 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind. 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new^ mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee. Dear, so much, 

Loved I not Honor more. 

Richard Lovelace. 

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 

It was a summer evening, — 

Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And he before his cottage-door 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 

Roll something large and round, 
Which he beside the rivulet. 

In playing there, had found ; 



320 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

He came to ask what he had found 

That was so large and smooth and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And, with a natural sigh, — 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

" I find them in the garden, 
For there's many hereabout ; 

And often, when I go to plough, 
The ploughshare turns them out ; 

For many thousand men," said he, 

"Were slain in that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes, — 
" Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they fought each other for." 

" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout ; 

But what they fought each other for 
I could not well make out ; 

But everybody said," quoth he, 

" That 'twas a famous victory. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 321 

" My father lived at Blenheim then. 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide ; 
And many a childing mother then, 

And new-born baby died ; 
But things Hke that, you know, must be 
At eveiy famous victory. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won, — • 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won. 

And our good prince Eugene." 
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !" 

Said httle Wilhelmine. 
" Nay, nay, my little girl !" quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

• ' And everybody praised the duke 
Who this great fight did win." 



32 2 A Ti'-easury of Favorite Poems. 

" But what good came of it at last ?" 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
" Why, that 1 cannot tell," said he ; 
"But 'twas a famous victory." 

Robert Southey. 

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

(Abraham Lincoln, died April 15, 1865.) 

O Captain ! my Captain I our fearful trip is done ; 
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we 

sought is won ; 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all 

exulting. 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim 
and daring : 

But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies. 
Fallen cold and dead ! 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the 

bugle trills ; 
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you 

the shores a-crowding ; 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager 
faces turning ; 

Here Captain ! dear father ! 
This arm beneath your head ; 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You've fallen cold and dead.. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 323 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and 

still ; 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse 

nor will : 
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage 

closed and done ; 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with ob- 
ject won : 

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies. 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 



ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC. 

" All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 

" Except, now and then, a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro. 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket." 
'Tis nothing — a private or two now and then 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men 

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. 



All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 

Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon 
Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. 



324 A Treasuiy of Favorite Poems. 

A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind 
Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping, 

While stars up above, with their glittering eyes. 
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 




KIFLEMAN HID IN THE THICKET. 



There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — 

For their mother ; may Heaven defend her ! 



A Treas7iiy of Favorite Poems. 325 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 

That night when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then, drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes. 

He dashes off tears that are welling, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place. 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree. 

The footstep is lagging and wear}- ; 
Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light, 

Toward the shade of the forest so drear}-. 
Hark I was it the night-wind that rustled the leaver } 

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing } 
It looked like a rifle — " Ha ! Mar}-, good-bye !" 

The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
No sound save the rush of the river ; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 
The picket's off duty for ever I 

Ethel Lnxx Beeks. 



INXIDEXT OF THE FRENCH CA^IP 

You know we French storm 'd Ratisbon : 

A mile or so a\\-ay, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-dav ; 



326 A Treasuj-y of Favo7'ite Poems. 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms lock'd behind. 
As if to balance the prone brow. 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the batter)^-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full galloping- ; nor bridle drew 

Until he reach'd the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy. 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy ; 

You hardly could suspect— 
(So tight he kept his lips compress'd, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You look'd twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal's in the market-place. 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perch'd him !" The chief's eye flash'd ; his plans 

Soar'd up again like fire. 




EWPEKOK, BY Guu's GKACE, WE'vE GOT YOU RaTISBON !' 



328 A Treasury of Favorite Poeiiis. 

The chief's eye flash'd, but presently 

Soften'd itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
"You're wounded !" " Nay," his soldier's pride 

Touch'd to the quick, he said, 
" I'm kill'd, sire !" And, his chief beside. 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

Robert Browning. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the 

sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath 

flown. 
That host on the morrow lay wither 'd and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the 

blast. 
And breathed -in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 

still ! 



A Treasu7'y of Favorite Poems. 329 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his 

pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 




The sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
That host on the morrow lay withek'd and stkown." 



And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 



33° A Treastiry of Favorite Poems. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail ; 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 

sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Lord Byron. 

BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was 

dearth of woman's tears. 
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life- 
blood ebb'd away. 
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he 

might say. 
The dying soldier falter'd as he took that comrade's 

hand. 
And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my 

native land ; 
Take a message and a token to some distant friends 

of mine. 
For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the 

Rhine. 

'• Tell my brothers and companions, when they 

meet and crowd around 
To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard 

ground, 
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the 

day was done 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 331 

Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the 

setting sun. 
And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown 

old in wars, 
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last 

of many scars ; 
But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's 

morn decline, 
And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the 

Rhine. 

" Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort 

her old age, 
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home 

a cage. 
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 
My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles 

fierce and wild ; 
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty 

hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my 

father's sword, 
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright 

light used to shine 
On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on 

the Rhine. 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with 

drooping head. 
When the troops are marching home again with 

glad and gallant tread, 



;^;^2 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and 

steadfast e^'e, 
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to 

die. 
And if a comrade seek her love, I* ask her in my 

name 
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, 
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's 

sword and mine), 
For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the 

Rhine. 

" There's another — not a sister : in the happy days 
gone by, 

You'd ha\'e known her by the merriment that 
sparkled in her eye ; 

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorn- 
ing- 

friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes 

heaviest mourning ; 
Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon 

be risen 
My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of 

prison), 

1 dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow 

sunlight shine 
On the vineclad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the 
Rhine. 

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, or 
seemed to hear, 



A Treasury of Favorite Foeins. ^yZZ 

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus 

sweet and clear, 
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting 

hill, 
The echoing chorus sounded through the evening 

calm and still ; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me as we pass'd 

with friendly talk 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-re- 

member'd walk, 
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine ; 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen 

on the Rhine," 

His voice grew faint and hoarser — his grasp was 

childish weak — 
His eyes put on a dying look — he sigh'd and ceased 

to speak ; 
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life 

had fled— 
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was 

dead ! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she 

look'd down 
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody 

corpses strown ; 
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light 

seem'd to shine. 
As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the 

Rhine. 

Cakoline Norton. 



334 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 
BEFORE SEDAN. 

(" The dead hand clasped a letter."' — Special Correspondence.') 

Here, in this leafy place, 

Quiet he lies. 
Cold, with his sightless face 

Turned to the skies ; 
'Tis but another dead ; 
All you can say is said. 

Carry his body hence, — 

Kings must have slaves ; 
Kings cHmb to eminence 

Over men's graves : 
So this man's eye is dim ; — 
Throw the earth over him. 

What was the white you touched, 

There, at his side ? 
Pa])er his hand had clutched 

Tight ere he died ; — 
Message or wish, maybe ; — 
Smooth the folds out and see. 

Hardly the worst of us 

Here could have smiled ! — 

Only the tremulous 
Words of a child ; — 

Prattle, that has for stops 

Just a few ruddy drops. 



A Treasury of Fa-vn'fe Poems. 335 

Look. She is sad to miss, 

Morning and night. 
His — her dead father's — kiss ; 

Tries to be bright, 
Good to mamma, and sweet. 
That is all. " Marguerite." 

Ah, if beside the dead 

Slumbered the pain I 
Ah, if the heans that bled 

Slept with the slain I 
If the grief died ; — But no ; — 
Death will not have it so. 

ArSTIN DOBSON. 

MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND. 

" There, on the left 1" said the colonel : the battle 

had shuddered and faded away, 
Wraith of a tier}' enchantment that left onlv ashes 

and blood-sprinkled clay — 
" Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where the 

enemy's sharpshooters stood. 
Lord, how they picked off our men, from the treach- 
erous vantage-ground of the wood I 
But for their bullets, Lll bet. my batteries sent them 

something as good. 
Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell me 

how many we killed. 
Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance 

was dulv fulfilled." 



;^;^6 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the corn- 
field — scarred and forlorn, 
Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the shot 

that had plowed it in scorn ; 
Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight of 

his comrades crushed at a blow. 
Flung in broken shapes on the ground like ruined 

memorials of woe ; 
These were the men whom at daybreak he knew, 

but never again could know. 
Thence to the ridge, where roots outthrust, and 

twisted branches of trees 
Clutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their prey 

to seize. 



" What's your report T' and the grim colonel smiled 

when the orderly came back at last. 
Strangely the soldier paused : " Well, they were 

punished." And strangely his face looked, 

aghast. 
" Yes, our fire told on them ; knocked over fifty — 

laid out in line of parade. 
Brave fellows, Colonel, to stay as they did ! But 

one I 'most wished hadn't stayed. 
Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack ; and 

then, at the end, he prayed — 
Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped ; and 

the dull, dead fingers yet held 
This little letter — his wife's — from the knapsack. 

A pity those woods were shelled !" 



A Trcasiwy of Favorite Poems. 337 

Silent the orclerl}', watching with tears in his eyes 

as his officer scanned 
Four short pages of writing. " What's this, about 

* jNIarthy Virginia's hand ' ?" 
Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, had 

gone from his bride to the strife ; 
Never they met again, but she had written him, 

telling of that new life. 
Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer and 

closer to him as his wife. 
Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, around 

it she traced a rude line : 
" If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, " )ou must 

kiss this outline of mine." 



There was the shape of the hand on the page, with 
the small, chubby lingers outspread. 

" rvlarthy Virginia's hand, for her pa," — so the words 
on the little palm said. 

Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for the 
vengeance so blindly fulfilled, 

Never again woke the old battle-glow when the bul- 
lets their death-note shrilled. 

Long ago ended the struggle, in union of brother- 
hood happily stilled ; 

Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and 
token of love's command, 

See ! there is lifted the hand of a baby — Marthy 
Virginia's hand ! 

George Parsoxs Lathrop. 



33^ A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 




As HIS CORSK 'lO THE KAMPAR] 



WE HURRIED. 



We buried him 
darkly at 
dead of 
night, 

The sods with 
our bayon- 
ets turning, 
the strug- 
gling moon- 
beam's mis- 
ty light. 

And the lan- 
tern dimly 
burning. 



No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 



Few and short were the prayers we said. 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 339 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 

But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we knew by the distant random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone in his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 

In Memory of Gen. Philip Kearney, 
Killed Sept. i, 1862. 

Close his eyes, his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon, or set of sun. 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 



34° A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow I 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight. 

Proved his truth by his endeavor 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep for ever and for ever. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars. 
What but death bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the Hand that made him„ 
Mortal love sweeps idly by : 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

George H. Boker. 



A Treasuiy of Favorite Focms. 341 



BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

Mine eyes haA'e seen the glory of the coming of the 

Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes 

of wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible 

swift sword : 

His truth is marching on, 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred 

circling camps ; 
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews 

and damps ; 
I can read His righteous sentence b}' the dim and 

flaring lamps : 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd rows of 

steel : 
" As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent 

with his heel, 

Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never 
call retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judg- 
ment-seat : 



342 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, 
my feet ! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across 

the sea, 
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you 

and me : 
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make 

men free. 

While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 



THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE. 

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billow 

Assails the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave. 
The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willow. 

Like fond weeping mourners, leans over the grave. 
The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders 
rattle, 

He heeds not, he hears not, he's free from all pain ; 
He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last 
battle. 

No sound can awake him to glory again. 

Oh, shade of the mighty, where now are the legions. 
That rush'd but to conquer when thou led'st them 
on ; 

Alas ! they have perish'd in far hilly regions, 
And all save the fame of their triumph is gone. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poenis. 343 

The trumpet may sound and the loud cannon rattle, 
They heed not, they hear not, they're free from 
all pain ; 
They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their 
last battle, 
No sound can awake them to glory again. 

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, 

For like thine own eagle, that soar'd to the sun. 
Thou springest from bondage, and leavest behind 
thee, 
A name which before thee no mortal had won. 
Tho' nations may combat, and war's thunders rat- 
tle. 
No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the 
plain ; 
Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy 
last battle. 
No sound can awake thee to glory again. 

Henry S. Washburn. 

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SiiA. 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea — 

A wind that follows fast. 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 



344 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems, 

Oh for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high — 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free ; 
The world of waters is our horiie. 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud — 
The wind is piping loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashing free ; 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

Allan Cunningham. 

A SEA DIRGE. 

Full fathom five thy father lies : 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes : 

Nothing of him that doth fade. 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange ; 

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 

Hark ! now I hear them, — 
Ding, dong, Bell. 

William Shakespeare. 




'^ 



MeKRV wen AKt WE.' 



346 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



TOM BOWLING. 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew ; 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling — 

For Death has broach'd him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty ; 

His heart was kind and soft ; 
Faithful below he did his duty ; 

But now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed — 

His virtues were so rare ; 
His friends were many and true-hearted ; 

His Poll was kind and fair. 
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly — 

Ah, many's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy. 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 

When He, who all commands, 
Shall give, to call life's crew together, 

The word to pipe all hands. 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches 

In vain Tom's life has doff'd ; 
For, though his body's under hatches. 

His soul has gone aloft. 

Charles Dibdin. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poe?ns. 347 

BLACK-EYED SUSAN. 

All in the Downs the fleet was moored. 

The streamers waving in the wind, 
When black-eyed Susan came on board, 

" Oh, where shall I my true-love find ? 
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 
Does my sweet William sail among your crew ?" 

William, who high upon the yard 

Rocked by the billows to and fro. 
Soon as the well-known voice he heard. 

He sigh'd and cast his eyes below ; 
The cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands, 
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 

" O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 

My vows shall always true remain, 
Let me kiss off that falling tear, — 

We only part to meet again ; 
Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

" Believe not what the landsmen say. 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 

They tell thee sailors, when away, 
In every port a mistress find ; 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 

For thou art present wheresoe'er I go." 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
The sails their swelling bosoms spread ; 



348 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

No longer she must stay on board, — 

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head : 
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, 
" Adieu !" she cried, and waved her lily hand. 

John Gay. 



THE TEMPEST. 

We were crowded in the cabin, 
Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 

It was midnight on the waters 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'Tis a fearful thing in Winter 
To be shattered by the blast. 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder : " Cut away the mast !" 

So we shuddered there in silence, — 
For the stoutest held his breath, 

While the hungry sea was roaring. 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness. 
Each one busy in his prayers, 

" We are lost !" the captain shouted 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered. 

As she took his icy hand : 
" Isn't God upon the ocean 

Just the same as on the land .^" 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 349 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 
And we spoke in better cheer, 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 

James T. Fields. 

IF ALL WERE RAIN AND NEVER SUN. 

If all were rain and never sun. 
No bow could span the hill ; 




If all were rain and never sun. 



If all were sun and ne\'er rain, 
There'd be no rainbow still. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



35 o ^ Treasicry of Favorite Poems. 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 

As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day, 

Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze. 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 

Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so, — but why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence join'd anew to feel, 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were filled. 
And onward each rejoicing steered : 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed 
Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too ! 

Through winds and tides one compass guides- 
To that and your own selves be true. 

But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past. 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 351 

One port, methought, alike they sought — 
One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas. 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN 
DRAKE. 

Green be the turf above thee. 

Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee. 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep, 
And long, where thou art lying, 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts whose truth was proven, 

Like thine, are laid in earth, 
There should a wreath be woven 

To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine. 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine, — 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But Eve in vain essay 'd it. 

And feel I cannot now. 



352 A Trcasujy of Favorite Poems. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fix'd too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 

Fitz-Gkeene Halleck. 

THE PETRIFIED FERN. 

In a valley, centuries ago, 

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender, 

Veining delicate and fibres tender ; 
Waving when the wind crept down so low ; 
Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it, 
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, 
Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it, 
But no foot of man e'er trod that way ; 
Earth was young and keeping holiday. 

Monster fishes swam the silent main. 

Stately forests waved their giant branches, 
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches. 

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain ; 

Nature revelled in grand mysteries ; 

But the little fern was not of these. 

Did not number with the hills and trees, 

Only grew and waved its wild sweet way. 

No one came to note it day by day. 

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood. 

Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion 
Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean ; 

Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 353 

Crushed the Httle fern in soft moist clay, 

Covered it, and hid it safe away. 

O, the long, long centuries since that day ! 

O, the agony, O, life's bitter cost. 

Since that useless little fern was lost ! 

Useless ! Lost ! There came a thoughtful man 
Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep ; 
From a fissure in a rocky steep 

He withdrew a 'stone, o'er which there ran 

Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, 

Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine, 

And the fern's life lav in every line I 

So, I think, God hides some souls away, 

Sweetly to surprise us the last da}'. 

MarvBolles Branxh. 

TWO WOMEN. 

The shadows lay along Broadway, 

'Twas near the twilight-tide. 
And slowly there a lad)' fair 

Was walking in her pride. 
Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly,^ 

Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 

And Honor charmed the air ; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair, — 
For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 



354 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 




And slowly there a lady fair was walking in her pride. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 

From lovers warm and true, 
For her heart was cold to all but gold. 

And the rich came not to woo, — 
But honored well are charms to sell, 

If priests the selling do, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poe?ns. 355 

Now walking there was one more fair, — 

A slight girl, lih-pale ; 
And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail, — 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, 

And nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 

For this world's peace to pray ; 
For. as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 

Her woman's heart gave way ! — 
But the sin forgiven bjy Christ in hea\en 

By man is cursed alway ! 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 

Down in the reeds by the river.'* 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 
And breaking the g^^lden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river. 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river : 

The limpid water turbidly ran, 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 

And the dragon-fly had fled away. 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 




Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, piercing sweet by the river !' 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 357 



High on the shore sate the great god Pan, 

While turbicll)" flowed the river, 
And hacked and hewed as a great g"od can, 
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 

To prove it fresh from the ri\'er. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 

(How tall it stood in the river I) 
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man. 
Steadily from the outside ring, 
And notched the poor dry empty thing 

In holes, as he sate by the river. 

This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, 

(Laughed while he sate by the river,) 
The only way, since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed." 
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed. 
He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan ! 

Piercing sweet b)" the river ! 
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 
The sun on the hill forgot to die. 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

Came back to dream on the ri\'er. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

To laugh as he sits by the river, 
Making a poet out of a man : 



358 A T?'easti7'y of FavoiHte Poems. 

The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain, — 
For the reed which grows never more again 
As a reed with the reeds in the river. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 




CUI BONO. 



What is hope ? A smiHng rainbow 
Children follow through the wet. 

'Tis not here, — still yonder, yonder : 
Never urchin found it yet. 

What is life } A thawing iceboard 
On a sea with cunning shore. 

Gay we sail. It melts beneath us : 
We are sunk, and seen no more. 



A Treasiij-y of Favorite Poems. 359 

What is man ? A foolish baby, 
Vainly strives and fights and frets ; 

Demanding all, deserving nothing. 
One small grave is what he gets. 

Thomas Carlyle. 



CARCASSONNE. 

(Translated from the French of Gustave Naudaud, by John R. 
Thompson.) 

I'm growing old, I've sixty years ; 

I've labored all my life in vain ; 
In all that time of hopes and fears 

I've failed my dearest wish to gain. 
I see full well that here below 

Bliss unalloyed there is for none. 
My prayer will ne'er fulfilment know — 

I never have seen Carcassonne. 

I never have seen Carcassonne ! 



You see the city from the hill, 

It lies beyond the mountains blue. 
And yet to reach it one must still 

Five long and weary leagues pursue. 
And to return, as many more ! 

Ah ! had the vintage plenteous grown ! 
The grape withheld its yellow store : 

I shall not look on Carcassonne. 

I shall not look on Carcassonne ! 



360 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 




They tell me every day is 
there 
Not more or less than 
Sunday gay ; 
In shining- robes and gar- 
ments fair 
The people walk upon 
their way. 
One gazes there on castle walls 

As grand as those of Babylon, 
A bishop and two generals ! 

I do not know fair Carcassonne. 
I do not know fair Carcassonne ! 



• So CROONED, ONE DAY, CLOSE 
BY LiMOUX, A PEASANT 
DOUBLE-BENT WITH AGE." 



The vicar's right : he says that we 

Are ever wayward, weak and blind; 
He tells us in his homily 

Ambition ruins all mankind ; 
Yet could I there two days have spent 

While still the autumn sweetly shone, 
Ah, me ! I might have died content 

When I had looked on Carcassonne. 

When I had looked on Carcassonne ! 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 361 

Thy pardon, Father, I beseech. 

In this, my prayer, if I offend ; 
One something sees beyond his reach 

From childhood to his journey's end ! 
My wife, our Httle boy Aignan, 

Have travelled even to Narbonne ; 
My grandchild has seen Perpignan, 

And I have not seen Carcassonne. 

And I have not seen Carcassonne ! 

So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, 

A peasant, double-bent with age. 
" Rise up, my friend," said I ; " with you 

I'll go upon this pilgrimage." 
We left next morning his abode, 

But (Heaven forgive him !) half-way on 
The old man died upon the road , 

He never gazed on Carcassonne. 

Each mortal has his Carcassonne ! 

THE LOST LEADER. 

Just. for a handful of silver he left us; 

Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat- 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us. 

Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 

So much w^as theirs who so little allowed. 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 

Rags — were they purple, his heart had been 
proud ! 



362 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

We that had loved him so, followed him, honored 
him. 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
Learned his great language, caught his clear ac- 
cents, 
Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 

Burns, Shelley, were with us — they watch from 
their graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves \ 

We shall march prospering — not through his pres- 
ence ; 

Songs may inspirit us — not from his lyre ; 
Deeds will be done — while he boasts his quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. 
Blot out his name then — record one lost soul more. 

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, 
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels, 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 
Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! 

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain. 
Forced praise on our part — the gHmmer of twilight. 

Never glad, confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gal- 
lantly. 

Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through his own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 

Robert Browning. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. ^i^Ty 



DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river-lane ; 

One after another he let them pass, 
Then fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill. 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go ; 

Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 



And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, 
Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 

Across the clover and through the wheat 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, 
And the blind bats' flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 

And now, when the cows come back at night, 
The feeble father drove them home. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. ^d^ 



For news had come to the lonely farm 

That three were lying where two had lain ; 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and late, 

He went for the cows when the work w^as done ; 
But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 

He saw them coming one b}- one, — 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, — 
But who was it following close behind ? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For gloomy prisons will sometimes yawn. 
And yield their dead unto life again ; 

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
Li golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb 
And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 

Kate Pitnam Osgood. 



366 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 



GOING HOME. 

Drawn by horses with decorous feet, 
A carriage for one went through the street, 
Polished as anthracite out of the mine, 
Tossing its plumes so stately and fine, 
As nods to the night a Nor^vay pine. 

The passenger lay in Parian rest, 
As if, by the sculptor's hand caressed, 
A mortal life through the marble stole. 
And then till an angel calls the roll 
It waits awhile for a human soul. 

He rode in state, but his carriage-fare 
Was left unpaid to his only heir ; 
Hardly a man, from hovel to throne, 
Takes to this route in coach of his own, 
But borrows at last and travels alone. 

The driver sat in his silent seat ; 
The world, as still as a field of wheat, 
Gave all the road to the speechless twain. 
And thought the passenger never again 
Should travel that way with living men. 

Not a robin held its little breath, 
But sang right on in the face of death ; 
You never would dream, to see the sky 
Give glance for glance to the violet's eye. 
That aught between them could ever die. 



A Treasury of Favorite Foe jus. 367 



A wain bound east met the hearse bound west, 
Halted a moment, and paused abreast ; 
And I verily think a stranger pair 
Had never met on a thoroughfare, 
Or a dim by-road, or anpvhere ; 

The hearse as slim and glossy and still 
As silken thread at a woman's will, 
Who watches her work with tears unshed, 
Broiders a grief with needle and thread. 
Mourns in pansies and cypress the dead ; 

Spotless the steeds in a satin dress, 

That run for two worlds the Lord's Express, — 

Long as the route of Arcturus's ray. 

Brief as the Publicans tr)-ing to pray, 

No other steeds by no other way 

Could go so far in a single day. 

From wagon broad and heavy and rude 
A group looking out from a single hood ; 
Striped with the flirt of a heedless lash, 
Dappled and dimmed with many a splash, 
" Gathered" behind like an old calash. 

It made you think of a schooner's sail 
Mildewed with weather, tattered by gale, 
Down " by the run" from mizzen and main, — 
That canvas mapped with stipple and stain 
Of western earth and the prairie rain. 



368 A Treasury of Favorite Poems, 

The watch-clog walked in his ribs between 
The hinder wheels, with sleepy mien ; 
A dangling pail to the axle slung ; 
Astern of the wain a manger hung, — 
A schooner's boat by the davits swung. 

The white-faced boys sat three in a row. 
With eyes of wonder and heads of tow ; 
Father looked sadly over his brood ; 
Mother just lifted a'flap of the hood ; 
All saw the hearse, — and two understood. 

They thought of the one-eyed cabin small, 
Hid like a nest in the grasses tall, 
Where plains swept boldly off in the air. 
Grooved into heaven everywhere, — 
So near the stars' invisible stair 

That planets and prairie almost met, — 
Just cleared its edges as they set ! 
They thought of the level wt)rlds " divide," 
And their hearts flowed down its other side 
To the grave of the little girl that died. 

They thought of childhood's neighborly hills, 
With sunshine aprons and ribbons of rills. 
That drew so near when the day went down, 
Put on a crimson and golden crown. 
And sat together in mantles brown ; 

The Dawn's red plume in their winter caps, 
And Night asleep in their drowsy laps, 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 369 

Lightening the load of the shouldered wood 

By shedding the shadows as they could, 

That gathered round where the homestead stood. 

They thought, — that pair in the rugged wain, 
Thinking with bosom rather than brain ; 
They'll never know till their dying day 
That what they thought and never could say. 
Their hearts throbbed out in an Alpine lay, 
The old Waldensian song again ; 
Thank God for the mountains, and amen ! 

The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on, — 
A moment or two, and both were gone ; 
The wain bound east, the hearse bound west, 
Both going home, both looking for rest. 
The Lord save all, and his name be blest ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 

THE OLD-FASHIONED CHOIR. 

I HAVE fancied sometimes, the old Bethel-bent beam, 
That tumbled to earth in the Patriarch's dream, 
Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest 
From the pillow of stone to the Blue of the Blest, 
And the angels descending to dwell with us here, 
"Old Hundred" and "Corinth" and "China" and 
" Mear." 

All the hearts are not dead, nor under the sod, 
That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and 
God ! 



37° A Treasiwy of Favorite Poems. 

Ah, "Silver Street" leads by a bright golden road, 
— O, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed,— 
But those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned 

choir, 
To the girl that sang alto, — the girl that sang air ! 
" Let us sing in His praise," the good minister said, 
All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at 

"York," 
Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that 

he read, 
While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead. 
And politely picked up the key-note with a fork. 
And the vicious old viol went growling along, 
At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song. 

I need not a wing, — bid no genii come. 

With a wonderful web from Arabian loom. 

To bear me along up the river of Time, 

Where the world was in rhythm and life was its 

rhyme ; 
Where the stream of the years flowed so noiseless 

and narrow. 
That across it there floated the song of the sparrow ; 
For a sprig of green caraway carries me there, 
To the old village church and the old village choir, 
Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung 
And timed the sweet pulse of the praise as they sung 
Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun 
Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun ! 
You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, 
Who followed bv scent till he run the tune down, — 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 371 

And dear sister Green, with more goodness than 

grace, 
Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her 

place, 
And where " Coronation" exultantly flows. 
Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her 

toes ! 
To the land of the leal they have gone with their 

song, 
Where the choir and the chorus together belong. 
O, be lifted, ye Gates ! Let me hear them again, 
Blessed song, blessed Sabbath, forever Amen ! 

Ben'jamin F. Taylor. 



MAUD MULLER. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mockbird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hillslope looking down. 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing fill'd her breast, — 




^ s 






^it 



' Thanks !' said the judge, ' a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.'" 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 373 



A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something" better than she had known. 

The judge rode slow!)- down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple trees, to gTeet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. 
And tilled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

"Thanks!" said the judge, "a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming- bees ; 

Then talked of the haying", and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring- foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown. 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 



374 ^ Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
That I the judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine, 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat, 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

" And rd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still ; 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 



A Treasury of Favo?'tfe Poems. 375 



" But low of cattle, and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving-words." 

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers snniled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble heart's bright glow. 
He watch'd a picture come and go ; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead. 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms ; 

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 



376 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

" Free as when I rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 377 



Then she took up her burden of Ufe again, 
Saying only, " It might ha\e been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and i)ity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been !" 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 

Poor lone Hannah, 
Sitting at the window, binding shoes ! 

Faded, wrinkled, 
Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse ! 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
When the bloom was on the tree : 
Spring and winter 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 



Passing nod or answer will refuse 
To her whisper, 



378 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

" Is there from the fishers any news ?" 
Oh, her heart's adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone ! 
Night and morning 

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah, 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos ; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May Day skies are all aglow. 
And the waves are laughing so ! 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window, and her shoes. 

May is passing : 
'Mid the apple boughs a pigeon coos. 

Hannah shudders, 
For the mild south-wester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound, a schooner sped : 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

'Tis November. 
Now no tears her wasted cheek bedews. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely, " Fisherman, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben ?" 
Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 



A Treasiti-y of Favorite Poems. 379 



Twenty winters 
Wear and tear the ragged shore she views. 

Twenty summers ; — 
Never one has brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sail o'er the sea : 
Hapless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Lucv Larcom. 

LANGLEY LANE. 

In all the land, range up, range down, 

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet 
As Langley Lane in London town, 

Just out of the bustle of square and street ? 
Little white cottages all in a row, 
Gardens where bachelors '-buttons grow, 

Swallows' nests in roof and wall, 
And up above, the still blue sky 
Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing by, — 

I seem to be able to see it all. 

For now, in summer, I take my chair, 
And sit outside in the sun, and hear 

The distant murmur of street and square. 

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near ; 

And Fanny, who lives just over the way, 

Comes running many a time each day 

With her little hand's touch so warm and kind ; 

And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek, 



380 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And the little live hand seems to stir and speak ; — 
For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear, 
And I am older by summers three, — 

Why should we hold one another so dear? 
Because she cannot utter a word, 
Nor hear the music of bee or bird. 

The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call ! 
Because I have never seen the sky. 
Nor the little singers that hum and fly, — 

Yet know she is gazing upon them all ! 

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly. 

The bees and the blue-flies murmur low. 
And I hear the water-cart go by. 

With its cool splash ! splash ! down the dusty row 
And the little one close at my side perceives 
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, 

Where birds are chirping in summer shine ; 
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she. 
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see, — 

And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. 

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue. 

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me } 

Do I not know she is pretty and young } 
Hath not my soul an eye to see ? 

'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir. 

To VN^onder how things appear to her. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 381 

That I only hear as they pass around ; 
And as long as we sit in the music and light, 
She is happy to keep God's sight, 

And / am happy to keep God's sound. 

Why, I know her face, though I am blind, — 

I made it of music long ago : 
Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined 

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow ; 
And when I sit by my little one, 
And hold her hand and talk in the sun, 

And hear the music that haunts the place, 
I know she is raising her eyes to me. 
And guessing how gentle my voice must be. 

And seeing the music upon m}' face. 

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer 

(I know the fancy is only vain), 
I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair, 

To see little Fanny and Langley Lane ; 
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear 
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear. 

The song of the birds, the hum of the street, — 
It is better to be as we have been, — 
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen. 

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet. 

Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane ! 

There is always something sweet to hear, — 
Chirping of birds or patter of rain. 

And Fanny, my little one, always near. 



382 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

And though I am weakly and can't Uve long, 
And Fanny my darling is far from strong, 

And though we never can married be, — 
What then ? — since we hold each other so dear, 
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, 

And the pleasure that only one can see ? 

Robert Buchanan. 



DE MASSA OB DE SHEEPFOL' 

De Massa ob de sheepfol', 

Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, 
Look' out in de gloomerin' meadows, 

Whar' de long night rain begin ; — 
So he call to de hirelin' shep'a'd, 

" Is my sheep, is dey all come in ?" 
So he call to de hirelin' shep'a'd, 

" Is my sheep, is dey all come in ?" 

Oh, den says de hirelin' shep'a'd, 

" Dey's some, dey's black and thin", 
An' some, dey's po' ol' wedda's, 

Dat can't come home ag'in. 
Dey is los\" says de hirelin' shep'a'd, - 

" But de res' dey's all brung in, 
Dey is los'," says de hirelin' shep'a'd,- 

" But de res' dey's all brung in." 

Den de Massa ob de sheepfol', 
Dat guard' de sheepfol' bin. 



A Treasury of Favorite Poenis. 2>^ 



o^o 



Goes clown in de gloomerin' meadows, 
Whar' de long night rain begin ; — 

So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', 
Callin' sof, " Come in, come in." 

So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', 
Callin' sof, "Come in, come in." 

Den up tro' de gloomerin' meadows, 

Tro' de col' night rain and win', 
And up tro' de gloomerin' rain-paf, 

Whar' de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, 
De po' los' sheep o' de sheepfol,' 

Dey all comes gadderin' in. 
De po' los' sheep o' de sheepfol', 

Dey all comes gadderin' in. 

Sakah p. McLean Greene. 



TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 

'TiS the last rose of summer. 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred. 

No rosebud, is nigh 
To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh. 

ril not leave thee, thou lone one ! 
To pine on the stem ; 



384 A Treasury of Faiwrite Poems. 

Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may / follow, 

When friendships decay, 
And from love's shining circle 

The gems drop away. 
When true hearts lie wither'd. 

And fond ones are fiown, 
Oh, who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone ? 

Thomas Moore, 



THE LAST LEAF. 

I SAW him once before, 
As he pass'd by the door ; 

And again 
The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 



A Treasury of Faiwrite Poe?7is. 385 

By the crier on his round 
Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets. 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan ; 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has press'd 

In their bloom ; 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady ! she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In. the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff ; 
And a crook is in his back. 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 



386 A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here, 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches,^and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now. 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holm«s. 

" GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE !" 

" Si vieillesse pouvait /" 

Scene. — A small neat room. In a high Voltaire 
chair sits a white-haired old gentleman. 

Monsieur Vieuxbois. Babette. 
M. Vieuxbois {turning querulously). 
Day of my life ! Where can she get } 
Babette ! I say ! Babette !— Babette ! ! 

Babette {entering hurriedly). 
Coming, M'sieu' ! If M'sieu' speaks 
So loud he won't be well for weeks ' 

M. Vieuxbois. 
Where have you been } 



A Treasury of Favorite Foe his. 387 

Babette. 

Why, M'sieu' knows : — 
April ! . . . Ville-d'Avray ! . . . Ma'am'sgilje--Rose ! 

M. ViEUXBOIS. 

Ah ! I am old, — and I forget. 

Was the place growing green, Babette ? 

Babette. 
But of a greenness !— yes, M'sieu' ! 
And then the sky so blue ! — so blue ! 
And when I dropped my iiitmortelle. 
How the birds sang ! 

{Lifting her apron to her ejyes.) 
This poor Ma'am'selle ! 

M. ViEUXBOIS. 

You're a good girl, Babette, but she, — 

She was an angel, verily. 

Sometimes I think I see her yet 

Stand smiling by the cabinet ; 

And once, I know, she peeped and laughed 

Betwixt the curtains. , , . 

Where's the draught ? 

{She gives hij)i a ctip.) 
Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette ; — 
Sing me your Norman chansonnette. 

Babette {sings). 
" Once at the Angelus 

{Ere I was dead). 
Angels all glorious 




"What, was I dreaming? Where's the draught?" 



A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 389 

Came to my Bed ; — 
Angels in blue and white 
Crowned on the Head." 

M. ViEUXBOlS {drowsily). 
" She was an angel." . . . "Once she laughed ". . . 
What, was I dreaming ? 

Where's the draught ? 

Babette {showing the empty cup). 
The draught, M'sieu' ? 

M. ViEUXBOIS. 

How I forget ! 
am so old ! But sing, Babette ! 

Babette {sings). 
" One was the Friend I left 

Stark in the snow ; 
One was the Wife that died 

Long, — long ago ; 
One was the Love L lost. . . . 

How could she know ?" 

M. ViEUXBOIS {murj7iuritig). 
Ah, Paul ! . . . Old Paul ! . . . Eulalie too ! 
And Rose. . . . And O ! " the sky so blue !" 

Babette {sings). 
" 07ie had my Mother s eyes. 

Wistful and mild ; 
One had my Father s face. 

One was a Child : 



39° A Treasury of Favorite Poems. 

All of them bent to me, — 
Bent down and smiled r' 
(He is asleep !) 

M. ViEUXBOlS {almost inaudibly). 
" How I forget !" 
" I am so old !" . . . " Good-night, Babette !" 

Austin DobsoNo 



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